Snowball's Chance Page 8

  Minimus was not available for comment, reported the Trotter.

  For the newly legitimized immigrants, a new classroom was built—and a new lesson was established. In this classroom, with this lesson, over the next seven weeks, these newcomers were initiated—told what Animalism was, and what the flag meant, et cetera.

  “This flag represents our boundless faith in Animal Farm,” repeated the new farm animals, holding their mitts to their pumping hearts and proudly droning the words they would drone for forty-nine consecutive days—

  “The green represents the enormous bounty that the village offers—fields of clover for everyone! And the hoof, horn, and wing represent how we’re all working together for a great future. It doesn’t matter if we’re purple, yellow, or orange, this village is our village!”

  “Also,” shrieked a rat who was a bit too eager at the swear-in, which was conducted at the historic site of the old tar wall, “the green represents money! Money, money, money!”

  Inappropriate as this outburst was, it expressed the genuine emotions of many of the farm animals, and new farm animals—as, for some time, there had been rumors that every one of them (not just the goats and pigs) would soon have money at their pad-tips. That all animals pawdle money, it was reasonably assumed, was a pre-requisite for opening an amusement park—so this rumor had been granted considerable credence. And while the rat said, “Money, money, money!” so too thought many of the animals, even if they weren’t exactly sure what money consisted of, or what it would do for them.

  To house the new animals, who had been camping in the weeds on the marshy side of the field, it was decided that a new barn should be built. The animals original to the farm would take up residence in these new barracks, as it would offer many amenities, while the new arrivals would occupy the old barnhouse, which, it was duly noted, was really not so bad—after all, not many of the émigrés had ever enjoyed such luxuries as hot and cold running water, bathtubs, windows, air-conditioning, heating, and electricity, even if the original farm animals had become curiously accustomed to that sort of thing.

  The new stalls were erected as efficiently as anything else the farm had put up. And soon enough, Animal Farm had a new barnhouse (as well as a new lime pit, and a new pile of debris).

  The cement stalls of the new barracks offered an opulence heretofore unimaginable. Although each stall was about half the size, in square feet, of a comparable stall in the old barn, these stalls were architecturally innovative—the floor plan consisted of an L-shaped design. Additionally, every stall was equipped with its own flush toilet! And not only that—each stall was furnished with a feather mattress, a looking glass, a horsehair sofa, and a lithograph of one’s own choosing! Of course, it did take considerable resources, and another loan had to be taken out on the farm. Also, three ducks and a cow were killed during the construction (two accidents with the earthmover, and one with the crane). But to have these accouterments, in addition to the bathtubs and windows and stall-to-stall carpeting that they all took for granted … well that was a good enough reason to die, or take out a loan—as terrifying and mysterious as death or financing might be.

  The new barracks was named the Thomas Tower (after Thomas the goat), and was launched into service with a smashed bottle of champagne, and a can of fruit cocktail for everyone.

  And it was right at the peak of these goodest good-times, that a new crisis shook Animal Farm. But this crisis, as full of intrigue as any of those that had come to Animal Farm since Snowball’s arrival, was also full of peril, and violence.…

  Fall had come, and as the usual Sunday Meeting gathered, the animals spoke of how beautiful it was to see the turning of the trees (of the few trees there were). Off in the distance, they could see the hills—leafy oceans of red, yellow, and green rolled in the wind. And just as the animals were settling into this bucolic mood, and stepping into the barn, they saw Minimus, who had not been seen for some time, flanked by a pack of snarling, salivating dogs.

  Dogs, to be sure, were always snarling and salivating, but anyone could see how different this was. And as Snowball walked through the big doors into the barn, the animals could see the reason. And Snowball could see the reason.

  “Dogs!” rumbled Minimus, his tone low and commanding—

  “Sic ’im!”

  For a long time Animal Farm had been two things. The one way—and the other. Minimus and Snowball. But now, all the animals understood, be it verbally or instinctually, that this was the end of the long brotherly hatred—that the old war was over.

  And with Minimus’s order, there came sudden motion—harried voices. And Brutus and his dogs were charging—and the animals were scattering. Directions were chosen—every which way—though nobody knew which was the way to safety, or if there was such a way. There was pushing. There was shoving.

  “Follow me!”

  “No, follow me!”

  “Get out of my way!”

  “No, get out of mine!”

  There was the drawing of lines in the sand—there was the crossing of those lines. There was squawking, hissing, and baring of teeth. There was backbiting, and kicking. There was, all over, that kind of turmoil that can only come from not knowing, not having even the dimmest of suspicions, as to what the hour would bring.

  One turtle, having finally surmounted the mêlée, was pushing forth through the barn doors—perhaps hoping to take shelter in the rock pile by the barn. And there, as she passed through the gravel, she and a growing number of farm animals saw that there—out there in the hayfield, the dogs nipping at his heels, Snowball too, was running.

  Running as only a pig could.

  Squealing, barking, moo-ing, clucking, baa-ing, neighing, squeaking, quacking. Mis-remembered histories. Mis-directed rages. Half-lies. Lies. Accusations. Counter-accusations. Names, dates, places. Enemies were trampled—allies, valorized. Terror and thrill. Round and round—all ran. All raced.

  What future?

  And then Snowball, that old Yorkshire boar, lost his hoofing, slipped, and rolled down the grassy knoll into a deep ditch. And as he lay unmoving, the shepherds jumped in after him—their lips retracting over their teeth, and their whole snouts pushing into the lightly furred flesh of his abdomen. And deeper—into his liver, his lungs, and his heart.

  When the dogs shook their faces and fur—Snowball was everywhere. And the animals looked on, in horror, as blood spattered the farm—and Minimus allowed his dogs to devour their quarry.

  They’d gone hog-wild.

  Some looked away. Some looked on. Always the cries of joy. Always the cries of dismay. A pig handed out tall glasses of whiskey. Even the young drank. Their cries for peace turned drunken.

  What now?

  A wave of hopelessness and despondency washed over the fearful creatures. What now? Everyone had so liked their new cement stalls. More of the youth called out for peace—a few of their elders, partly afraid for them, partly disgusted by them, were meting out swats for good measure. All, lean and bony with fear, cowered with an uncomprehending anxiety as they watched the inflation of the oldest and fattest and most Napoleonic dogs and pigs. (“And, uh, who’s Napoleon again?” asked a nervous field mouse.)

  Two more whiskey barrels were rolled out. The scene, especially among the younger animals, grew debauched. Their cries for peace became slurred and confused—unintelligible. Others shrank and pointed their forefeet.

  “It’s your fault!”

  “No, yours!”

  And in a moment, a million dreams had fallen. Be they selfish or altruistic—clink, clink, clink—they tipped like dominoes.

  But then an odd thing began to happen. The attack dogs—they started to cough, and to sputter the blood that they had been drinking from their disboweled prey. They began to clutch their necks and stomachs. And they moaned—and yowled of their own flesh burning.

  And in the animals, the dream was reborn—but now more selfish, and more altruistic. And, with a welling-up of optimism, they
watched the shepherds choke on their own prey.

  They watched the shepherds fall—and writhe.

  And the expression of glee worn by Minimus transformed to one of dread, as his guards dropped one by one. Killers, only a moment before, were now too helpless to lift themselves to their own feet. Yes, Minimus looked around—now he was helpless, too.

  And then Snowball rose from the arena of blood—rose through the corpse—rose through the flesh that hung from the jowls of the failing shepherds. It had all been a ruse! That eaten pig wasn’t Snowball! It was a poisoned side of pork!

  And those dogs—they were dead dogs now!

  And Snowball was alive!

  Snowball was alive!

  The animals had all seen him die, but there he was, alive—and now, even those who had hated him loved him.

  Snowball, the cheater of death, was alive!

  Snowball, the dreamer of dreams, was alive!

  Yes, alive!

  Snowball and the dream!

  The breeze picked up, shifted sharply, and standing atop the carnage, high above the animals of the farm, Snowball’s ears fluttered in the bluster! And on the current of air—the animals smelled death, and victory! And Snowball’s dogs salivated—for they knew they would soon roll in it.

  And thus—so too did Minimus finally understand. There was no stopping this Snowball. This avalanche.

  But who, wondered Minimus, had forewarned Snowball?

  And then, in the brief instant that Minimus looked from Snowball to Brutus to Pinkeye, the old pig knew all.

  Brutus and Pinkeye—his closest allies, so he had thought—they were giving him up to Snowball.

  Minimus looked to his chief dog—is it true?

  Yes, Brutus lowered his head in disclosure. Yes, he had turned on his Prize Pig.

  Yes, Brutus lowered his head, he had struggled with the question—what is loyalty? And he had decided, his loyalty was to the farm animals, as best as he could understand it. And as best he could understand it, their loyalty was to riches—their loyalty was to might. Their loyalty was to the conqueror and his gold. That was the future.

  And so Minimus finally understood—Brutus had decided.

  Snowball was the master of the farm, the master of the farm animals, and the master of the dogs.

  And Minimus’s pig’s eyes sagged, the sequence of his expressions as if to say—

  You, Pinkeye, even if I didn’t expect it, I understand—as you saw that your destiny lay with him. And you, Brutus—of course I should have known that your allegiance would rest upon the strongest haunches. But you were my faithful dog, and I never would have known—and I would rather have died than known.

  In a gesture of infinite forgiveness, and infinite anguish, Minimus extended his hoof to his former shepherd—

  “Et tu, Bruté?”

  And as Minimus looked into the gray eyes of his own monster, Snowball gave a haughty nod, and with an evil chuckle, the order—

  “Jugular!”

  And with that, whatever it meant, Minimus was set upon, and consumed by his own shepherds.

  Once so strong, Minimus died gurgling and pitiable.

  And all the animals saw the brightness of the future that Snowball had brought to them. And blinded by that whiteness, they hailed it.

  “Snowball! Snowball! Snowball!”

  And Minimus, right under their snouts, passed from this life, taking an era with him, and thinking, not of the pain in his limbs, not of the pain in his loins, but of how, maybe, it could have all been so different. The whisper of his final couplet went unheard—

  To Animal Farm I forever impart,

  The red, red ripe of my loyal heart.

  The following Sunday Meeting, Pinkeye, in his inaugural address as the now and future and probably forever Prize Pig, assured all the populace that nothing like this would ever happen again, and that the pigs and dogs were entirely on top of things, and that nobody should worry their pretty little heads.

  And that was definitely a relief, as everybody thought they had a pretty little head, and nobody liked to worry.

  It was Pinkeye’s solemn promise that nothing would change—and that if there should be any change, it would be for the better.

  The carnival would still be built—and it would be built at top speed. All the pigs were unified in their thinking—and certainly, there was no nefarious, self-destructive specter of gluttony. No, quite the opposite, pigs were known to be a generous and equitable species. And to suppose that any pig was motivated, for example, by wealth or power, was, frankly, beyond sanity.

  A pig would never intentionally undermine another pig. A pig would never intentionally deceive or prevaricate—and a pig would never set out to accomplish any goal without anything but the well-being of Animal Farm at heart. (And this well-being was not just in the hearts of the public servant pigs, who everyone knew were beyond reproach, but all the pigs—be they leaders of policy, industry, or coming attractions.) True, conceded Pinkeye, there would be “bumps,” but never resulting from greed, or revenge, or political manipulations—no, not these. Rather, the exposure of any such “bump” (be it by a specially appointed prosecutor, or one of the Trotter’s many trusty reporters) would always be excited by the integrity, and the intention of maintaining the integrity of the farm—and the initial cause of any such bump would always be discovered to be a misdirected impulse, loyalty, or sub-committee. Nobody at the top was ever really at fault—though there were often a few rotten apples at the bottom of the barrel. Or, rather, the bottom of the bottom of the barrel. Or, rather, the bottom of the bottom of the bottom of the barrel.…

  So, speaking of bad apples—what happened to those animals involved in the disboweling attempt?

  Well, as was uncovered in the Trotter, the lone conspirator was an orangish badger by the name of Cotswold.

  Dispelling groundless rumors—Minimus was unequivocally cleared of any wrongdoing. And no, nobody had seen the shepherds attack Minimus, and no, he had not been reduced to dog-meat. Rather, the dogs were as restrained and obedient as ever, and Minimus, wanting to spend more time with his piglets, had retired with his sow to their country estate. The only animal with a memory reliable enough to confirm any of this was Benjamin, who now spent all his spare time with Emerald and her son Kip—and who had no inclination, as he said, to be interrupted with silly questions. That aside, even he must have known that his silence was perceived as verification of the official record. (Kip was home-schooled due to an irregular heartbeat.)

  An embittered functionary who dreamt of being a dog, Cotswold had proceeded entirely on his own initiative. And accordingly, as nothing could compromise the judicious processes of the farm, would Cotswold have been held accountable—had not he himself been subsequently assassinated by one of the beer-cart bulls.

  The matter so nicely resolved, the episode was quickly looked on as, not a threat, but a reaffirmation of Animal Farm. It was not, after all, as if this kind of thing had ever happened before, or would ever happen again. And besides, as was so obviously in evidence, even when it did happen—well, justice was swift and inevitable.

  VIII

  IF, BY COTSWOLD’S FAILED DISBOWELING attempt, there was any question as to Snowball’s authority, that question was soon answered. Under Pinkeye’s wise and free hoof, Snowball had successfully concluded his campaign to oust the Pilkingtons from Foxwood, and the Fredericks from Pinchfield. (With the proceeds from another bank loan, a second law firm had been retained to assist the first.) The victory was the most celebrated in all the history of Animal Farm. It was hammers, saws and wire-clippers on the old fences that partitioned the three farms—and The Freedom Shuffle all night long.

  One of the pigs put a phonograph into service—and the animals drank and caroused until dawn. Many of the pigs became so drunk that they disrobed and frolicked in a mud simulated from chocolate and almond paste. The pigs thus revealed in their undergarments, it was noted by one of the badgers that a good number of t
hem had grown so fat so as to have no legs—just feet! The pigs were enormously gratified by the observation—and as happy as all the animals were in this fresh new world, it appeared the pigs were even happier! In a spontaneous honoring of farm triumph, it was decreed that all animals should have a regular portion of milk and apples. The pigs, meanwhile, were heard whispering excitedly about some foodstuffs called caviar and cognac—brain food, evidently, that was especially beneficial to a pig.

  And perhaps owing to such beneficial brain food as this, the pigs were so very duty-conscious that not for a single night did they leave the two farmhouses derelict. Indeed, it was well before dawn—with the celebration still in full swing—that the first pigs harnessed the horses to cart their belongings to the abandoned residences.

  At odds with this dignified duty-doing, however, was the swine rush on the good rooms—and the angry squeal of one pig against another. And no matter how out of the ordinary that behavior might be … well, for some inexplicable reason, an animal drinking whiskey couldn’t help but think it was funny—downright hysterical—and even the dogs were inspired to dance and drink for another three hours!

  But of course, as it was explained at the Sunday Meeting, the animals had been wrong to laugh at such a serious problem. The pigs needed more space, urgently, and this was a matter that required immediate address. Soon comprehending the grave injustice suffered by the pigs, the animals approved a full remodeling of the Jones House, as well as the houses of Frederick and Pilkington. The basements would be finished, and rooms, toilets, and kitchens would be added. As the swine had troubling “hoofing it” (no legs, just feet), it was also deemed necessary to budget a motor vehicle for every pig—that he or she might drive from one farmhouse to another. (The distances, respectively, were two and three miles—not, as had been previously thought, ⅓ of a mile, and ½ of a mile. The Frederick and Pinchfield Houses only appeared nearby, due to something called an “optical illusion.”) Also, six Japanese dogs (Shih-tzus) trained in the art of massage (shiatsu) were taken on to help the pigs relieve any stress that they might be suffering as a result of the relocation—two dogs for each house.