Читать книгу Pigs In Paradise - Roger Maxson - Страница 8

The two ravens flew from the loft of the two-story cinder-block barn and alighted in the branches of the great olive tree in the middle of the pasture. The pasture was part of a 48-hectare moshav in Israel that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. Only a few kilometers south of Kerem Shalom, it was not far from the Rafal Border Crossing between the Gaza Strip and Egypt. The 48-hectare moshav, or 118-acre farm, stood like an oasis in the arid desert with olive and carob trees, lemon groves, brown-green pasture, and crops used as fodder for the livestock. In the pasture, pigs dotted the landscape, grazing on the brown-green grass, and lounged on the wet-clay banks of a pond fed by a system of underground aqua filters that supplied water to this and other surrounding moshavim.

Ezekiel and Dave were perched, hidden among the branches of the great olive tree. Ezekiel said, “On a day like today one can see forever.”

“Sandstone, as far as the eye can see,” Dave said and ruffled his shiny black feathers.

“Oh, look, a scorpion. Care for one?” Ezekiel said.

“No, thank you, I’ve eaten. Besides, I doubt the scorpion would care very much about being my afternoon meal.”

“You have such empathy for the lesser forms of creatures among us.”

“I can afford empathy when full,” Dave said. “When running on empty, not so much.”

“You’re always generous toward the farm animals.”

“Yes, well, empathy for the lesser creatures among us.”

While the domesticated farm animals, two breeds of sheep, goats, Jersey cow, and bay mare grazed in the pasture, others, mostly pigs, took refuge from the noonday sun, far from the madding herds, flocks, and gaggles, by lounging on the banks of the pond in relative peace. A road ran north and south, dividing the moshav in half, and on this side of the road, the Muslims from the nearby Egyptian village did not like the spectacle of filthy swine sunbathing.

Mel, the priestly mule, meandered along the fence line, careful to stay within earshot of two Orthodox Jews as they made their way through the moshav along the sandy road as they often did while on their daily walks. The road went parallel between the main pasture on one side and the dairy operation on the other.

“Jew, pig, what difference does it make?”

“Well, so long as they keep kosher.”

“Mark my word, one day those pigs will be our ruin.”

“Nonsense,” replied the one whose name was Levy.

“Of all places on the earth to raise pigs, Perelman chose here with Egypt to the west and Gaza Strip to the north. This place is a tinderbox,” Levy’s friend Ed said.

“The money Perelman makes on exports to Cypress, and Greece, not to mention Harvey’s Pulled Pork Palace in Tel Aviv, makes the moshav profitable.”

“The Muslims aren’t happy with swine wallowing in the mud,” Ed said. “They say the pigs are an affront to Allah.”

“I thought we were an affront to Allah.”

“We’re an abomination.”

“Shalom, swine-herders,” someone called. The two Jews stopped in the road, as did the mule, grazing just inside the fence. An Egyptian approached. He wore a plain headscarf, and white cotton clothes. “Those swine,” he pointed, “those filthy swine are going to be your ruin. They are an affront to Allah; an insult to Muhammad; in short, they offend our sensibilities.”

“Yes, we agree. They are trouble.”

“Trouble?” said the Egyptian. “Just look at what trouble is.” Along the mud-clay banks of the pond, a Large White, or Yorkshire boar, poured muddy water over the heads of other pigs wallowing in the mud. “What is that?”

“That is something we have not seen ourselves.”

“These are not swine or farm animals, these animals. They are evil spirits, djinns, from the desert. They will bring about the destruction of this place around you. They are an abomination. Slaughter the beasts. Burn their stench from the land or Allah will. For it is Allah’s will, that will prevail.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Leavy said. “You see, this is not our moshav.”

“We’re merely passersby,” Ed said.

“Allahu Akhbar!” The Egyptian turned and made his way up the sunbaked slope that separated the two countries. Only fence separated the postage-sized 48-hectare Israeli farm from the rugged, wind-swept Sinai Desert. Once the Egyptian reached the crest of the hill, he disappeared into his village.

“Doomed,” Ed said. “He is right. We are all doomed. Of all places on the earth to grow pigs, this swine-herder, this moshavnik Perelman, chose here.”

“Look,” said Levy. “What does he think he is, John the Baptist?”

“That’s trouble I’m afraid,” Ed said. “That’s an abomination.”

Out in the afternoon sun before God and all to see, the Large White stood upright, and from the pond dropped a dollop of wet mud over a yellow-feathered chicken’s head--“Bog! Bog!” cried the hen, buried as she was with mud to her beak. To the animals of the farm, the Large White was known as Howard the Baptist, a Perfect, and almost in every way. As the two men continued beyond the farm’s boundary, the mule turned toward the olive tree that soared in the middle of the main pasture. Border Leicester and Luzein sheep grazed among the smaller carob and olive trees as goats gnawed the scrub grass that grew along the upper terraced slopes that helped conserve water.

In the middle of the pasture, Blaise, the Jersey, and Beatrice, the bay mare grazed. “My goodness, Beatrice,” Blaise said. “Stanley certainly has caught wind of you.”

“He’s such a showoff,” Beatrice said. “Just look at him.”

In the fenced barn lot behind the white cinder block barn, the black Belgian stallion neighed and whinnied and pranced about in all his glory and swagger. He was a large horse with broad shoulders who stood 17 hands or, as priests from the local churches preferred, 17 inches.

“Do you suppose he knows that the gate has been opened?” Blaise said.

“It doesn’t matter. Just look at all those humans. Who said men were Godly?”

From the ridge of the brown sandstone hill, Muslim men and boys watched with anticipation as village women chased young girls away. While on the Israeli side, Jews and Christians, and monks among them from nearby monasteries, all loved a parade. Stanley did not disappoint. He reared back onto his muscular hind legs and kicked at the air, showing off his prowess and massive member, dripping wet as it was, sowing his seed in the ground beneath him for all who saw, and there were many. Cheers went up from the crowd as Stanley snorted, and swaggered about the barn lot. “If Manly Stanley wants to parade about and make a fool of himself, he’ll do it without me.”

“Manly Stanley,” Blaise laughed. “Really, of all things?”

“Yes, dear, you see,” Beatrice smiled, “when Stanley’s with me, he’s usually standing on two legs.”

Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze, and as they did, they drifted apart. Stanley, out of the gate, found his way to Beatrice’s ear. He whinnied, and whined; neighed and nagged, but no matter what he did or how nice he asked, nothing seemed to work. To the dismay of the onlookers, the bay mare refused the advances of the black Belgian Stallion. Unbeknownst to them, it was because of their presence that she would not allow the Belgian to cover her, and thus entertain them. No matter how much Stanley sashayed, pranced, swayed, or swung his member, for that matter, Beatrice would not give in to his desire or bluster. Several men continued to linger against the fence, watching and hoping.

“I’m beginning to think you like this, the torment,” Beatrice said.

“If I had a pair of hands, I wouldn’t need you,” he snorted.

“Wish you had maybe then you’d leave me alone. Look at them, quite content to be left to their own devices. Perhaps if you ask nicely, one will lend you two of his, or two of them and make it a party.” Beatrice resumed grazing alongside Blaise in the pasture.

The white two-story main cinder block barn, with the feedlot, and awning that extended in the back of the barn, and two pastures made up most of the half of the farm that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. On the other side of the road were the main house and guest quarters, both coated in stucco, the laborers’ quarters, the dairy operation, and the smaller dairy barn. A sandy tractor path turned off the road and ran behind the dairy barn down between a lemon grove and a small meadow where 12 Israeli Holsteins grazed.

As Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze in the main pasture alongside the two breeds of sheep, Border Leicester, and Luzein, a small number of Angora and Boer goats grazed along the terraced slopes. In another pasture, one separated by a fence and a wooden gate, grazed one singular, muscular, reddish-coated Simbrah bull, a combination of the Zebu or Brahman for its tolerance to heat and insect resistance and the docile Simmental. Stanley, all black except for a slender white diamond patch that ran down his nose, was back in the barn lot and continued to prance about, showing off.

The pig population was not just a geopolitical problem but a numbers problem as well. For they were proliferate and produced large numbers of offspring, often stretching the boundaries and natural resources of the moshav where animal husbandry was a practiced art form. Among the general population, also lived the rather large and mightily noisy blue-and-gold macaw parrot who was aloof, and lived aloft in the rafters with Ezekiel and Dave, the two ravens with their shiny, shimmering black feathers. Rounding out the farm population, besides the old black and grey mule, were two Rottweilers from the farmhouse who spent most of their time attending the mule, and the flocks and gaggles of chickens, ducks, and geese.

Blaise went out to the pond. Howard the Baptist was now resting among the other pigs when it was at its hottest time of day. He stood when he saw Blaise approaching. “Blaise, you who are without sin, have come to be baptized?”

“No, silly. It’s awfully hot, though, won’t you agree?”

“I agree you should join me and become a priestess of the true believers of God, those who know the truth that every one of us is empowered with the knowledge that God lives within us all; thus, all is good and pure of heart. Ours is a battle between good and evil, light and dark. With me, you are a priestess, a Perfect, an equal. Blaise, others already love and listen and follow you. This is your place in the sun.”

“Oh, Howard, you’re too kind, but I have no following.”

“You will. Come, this is your time to shine. Here, the female is accepted as an equal and shares in the service of our fellow animals, great and small, female and male alike. All are good and equal in the true faith.” Howard poured muddied water over Blaise, and it ran down along her neck. “We do not discriminate, or need buildings built of brick and mortar to worship in, or seek a mediator to speak to God.”

“Howard, I came out for a drink of water.” Blaise lowered her head, and in a clear section of the pond, she drank as the mud along her neck trickled down and muddied the clean water.

“Mark my word, Blaise, his sanctuary will come down around you and all the animals that follow him to a dark abyss.”

“It’s a barn, Howard. I have a stall in the barn, as does Beatrice. It’s where his ramblings-on-about loll Beatrice and me to sleep.”

“Blaise,” Howard called after her. “Someone is coming, Blaise. A pig, a minion, to do the mule’s destruction.”

“He baptized you,” Beatrice said when Blaise returned to the pasture. “I saw him pour water over you.”

“Mud mostly if you must know. Pigs love it. It is rather soothing I must say on such a hot day when shade at best is fleeting.” They started for the olive tree where the others, mostly the greater of the animals, stood in its shade. They stopped when they saw the mule approaching, not wanting him to hear them.

“I have to say what Howard says about truth and light and having the knowledge of God in our hearts sounds more appealing than the fear-mongering from him,” Blaise said.

“Don’t know what that old mule’s talking about half the time. It’s all mind-numbing.”

The yellow chicken, dripping from mud and water, ran past. “We’re being persecuted! Better get your houses in order. The end is upon us!”

“He’s so full of menace and foreboding, doom, and despair.”

“Beatrice, is your house in order?”

“I don’t have one,” she laughed.

“That’s Mel’s audience, easy prey,” Blaise said, nodding toward the retreating chicken.

“Oh, what does he know? He’s a worn-out old mule. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“Julius, on the other hand, is a good bird and a dear friend. He’s harmless.”

“Careless is more like it if you ask me.” Blaise nudged Beatrice with her nose as the mule approached to join the others in the shade of the great olive tree. Beyond the animals, on the Egyptian side of the border, the Muslim who had warned the two Jews of the pig population problem now was being chased through the village by his neighbors. Men hurled stones and boys fired rocks from sling-shots until he fell, and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

“Did you see that?” Dave said.

“See what?” Ezekiel said. “I can’t see anything for the leaves of the tree.”

Julius flew out and alighted in the tree branches above the other animals standing in the shade. Large at thirty-four inches with a long tail, his bright blue feathers blended nicely with the leaves of the olive tree. He had a black beak, dark-blue chin, and a green forehead. He tucked the golden feathers on the underside of his wings into his outer blue and would not standstill. Instead, he continuously moved back and forth in the branches. “What a motley crew this is.”

“Holy macaw! It’s Julius.”

“Hello Blaise, how do you do?”

“I do fine, thank you. Where have you been, silly bird?”

“I’ve been here all along, silly cow.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, if you must know, I’ve been defending your honor and it’s not been easy. I had to fight my way out of Kerem Shalom, then fly all the way here. Boy, are my wings tired.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she laughed.

“Blaise, you wound me. What don’t you believe, the fight or the flight?”

“Well, obviously you flew.”

“Did you miss me?”

“What mischief have you been up to now?”

“I thought I’d come out and join the intelligentsia of the higher animals–oh, Mel, you old mule! I didn’t see you.”

Blaise and Beatrice looked at each other and caught themselves from wanting to laugh.

“Blaise,” Julius said, “lovely day for a flock, don’t you think?” Julius loved an audience.

The chicken covered in mud caked to her bill and feathers ran toward them. “We’re being persecuted,” she cried as she ran through them under the olive tree. “The end is near! The end is near! Put your houses in order.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Julius said.

“There you go, Julius. She could stand a good flocking.”

“A good flogging is more like it. I’m looking for a bird of a different feather even though I hear she likes to cluck and is quite good at it.”

“Oh, Julius, you’re incorrigible.”

“Besides, what would my parents think? Well, not much, they’re parrots, but what would they say? My father was a babbling idiot who would repeat anything anyone ever told him. I don’t remember him very well. He flew the coop before I had wings to carry on. I remember, though, the day he left, dropping a trail of bird shit as he flew away.”

“What has it been this time, Julius, three days?”

“Why, Blaise, you remember, but who’s counting? I mean, really? Who can or remember back that far?”

“Doesn’t seem long at all,” Mel said. “Seems like only yesterday.”

“Mel? Mel, is that you? Everybody, in case you missed it. Mel made a funny.” Julius moved in the branches above Blaise. “Yes, dear, I’ve been away for three days, not far really, and having as much fun as one can while still so close to home. I dropped in on a covey of homing pigeons. They’re a feisty flock, those girls, and keep a neat nest. Oh, sure, they’re not as loving as turtle doves, but you can have your way with them and they keep coming back.”

“That doesn’t sound very parrot-like of you, Julius.”

“What’s a parrot to do? I mean, how many Ara ararauna species do you see in the bush?”

“Regardless, you’re supposed to mate for life, aren’t you?”

“Yes, well, if you recall, my first love was an African Grey.”

“Yes, I recall she was of a different feather?” Blaise said.

“My favorite Ara ararauna, and I didn’t care one iota what Mom and Dad thought.”

“As it should be,” Blaise said.

“What became of her?” Beatrice said. “I don’t recall?”

“She was stolen, taken from me, and shipped to the dark continent of America. She was such a striking beauty, too, with warm grey feathers, and dark inviting eyes. She was a real clicker, that girl, and could she whistle, " Julius whistled.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Beatrice said.

“I’m sorry, too, but we’re animals, aren’t we, some pets, others livestock. It goes with the territory.”

Blaise said, “So, what brings you out this time of day, Julius?”

“I’m a parrot, Blaise. I’m not a barn owl. I have friends to see and places to go.”

“Yes, well, after being gone for three days, I imagined you’d be in the rafters resting, or painting something. Not out in this heat.”

“As it happens, I’m off today to see an African Grey from the neighborhood.” Julius dropped to a lower branch, his blue feathers blending with the green leaves. “So, today’s visit will be something sentimental for me, and who knows, possibly the beginning of a long-term relationship. I don’t want to get my hopes up, though, not just yet. She may have already mated with another, which would serve me right for my late-night carousing. I’m just saying.”

“Your presence will be greatly missed,” Mel said. His irony was not lost.

“Why, thank you, Mel, but not to worry. I plan to be back in the old barn lot in time for the party, so save a dance for me.”

“There’s dancing?” Ezekiel said to Dave.

“Blaise, sometimes I think we’re an old married couple.”

“Because we think alike?”

“Because we don’t flock.”

“I’m a cow.”

“And he’s a mule,” Julius said, “and the only true non-flocker among us. It’s rather rude of us to even be talking about flocking in front of his Holiness, considering he can’t.”

“Jew-bird.”

“There he goes again trying to confuse the issue. He can’t argue the facts, so he attacks the messenger. In this case, and in most cases, I might add, it’s me. Don’t blame me for your predicament. I didn’t introduce your mother to your father, Donkey Kong. Oh, it was love at first sight when she got a load of that guy. She was a real Mollie, his mother.”

“What?” Molly the Border Leicester looked up.

“Not you, dear,” Blaise assured Molly.

“When you die, you’ll be a martyr to no one,” Mel said.

“When I die, I plan to be dead. Not leading the choir.”

“Atheist, Jew-bird.”

“Mel, Mel, Mel, a mule by any other name, say jackass, is still a mule.” Mel turned and broke wind as he sauntered off toward the fence line along the Egyptian border.

“You take after your mother too, especially from behind--both of you wear the same perfume! Just like a stubborn old mule, always has to have the last wind. What I wouldn’t give for a five-cent cigar. Be gone, you horse’s ass, or half a horse’s ass. The other half, I don’t know what you’d call that butt but cute. Speaking of his old black rump, I have a black bill. I use mine to pass knowledge and not fear or natural gas. I use my lovely black beak to do good in the world like climbing, breaking nutshells, and his nuts, whereas his rump--”

“You certainly do,” Beatrice said, not amused. “He talks, just not as incessantly as you.”

“Yes, he does out his black rump, but he can’t do both at the same time, walk and talk. It’s where we went to school.” Julius did a flip on a smaller branch, making it sway with his weight, his beak cutting into the bark. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have that cigar, after all. Lit up against his backdraft, it would have set off a small explosion and the neighbors would have gotten all giddy, and then the chanting, the chanting.”

Just then the call went out for afternoon prayers.

“Oh, will it ever end? We don’t stand a chance.”

Mel wandered along the perimeter fence line that bordered the Sinai Desert.

“Julius, you never seem to have much reverence for the elders, the leaders, our parents,” Beatrice said.

“Is it written somewhere that we should? I might be an animal, a parrot, but seriously, some of our elders would have us led over cliffs or to the slaughter through our holy reverence for them.”

“Is what you said about his parentage true?”

“What difference does it make?” Julius said. “His mother was a horse; his father a jackass, and together they had a darling little critter who grew up to take himself way too seriously, and now he’s an old mule, but from behind a real horse’s ass. Come to think of it, for a non-flocking mule, he certainly tries to flock everyone he can.”

Mel stopped at the back corner of the perimeter fence as a man in dusty brown robes stepped from a crevasse in the desert rocks. He looked hungry, weather-worn, and sinewy.

“Oh look, everyone! It’s Tony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert.” Mel stood at the fence as the monk came up to him. “They’re a fine pair, kindred idiots.” The monk reached over the fence and gave Mel a carrot and rubbed his nose. “Ah, isn’t that sweet,” Julius said, “just like two peas in a pod.” Julius rustled the olive branches, inspired. His face flushed pink from excitement. “Blaise, those two remind me of a couple of mallards.”

“Why is that, Julius, because they’re loons?”

* * *

Mel’s story as per Julius

“Before this moshav, it was pretty barren with no irrigation. One day a Bedouin Arab rode across the desert on a camel, leading a small caravan with a horse, donkey, and jackass as pack animals, Mel, his mother, and father. Even though Mel was quite young and small, he carried a substantial amount of goods. The Arab sold the goods to the Egyptians, and when depleted of merchandise and no longer needed pack animals, he sold Mel’s mother and father to his fellow Arabs. Oddly, no one wanted the young strong mule. He was strong, too strong, as it turned out. Thus, a djinn come out of the desert. Since he was an evil little djinn spirit, a demon-possessed mule-child, no one was willing to pay the price the Bedouin wanted for the muscular black mule. The Bedouin saw no choice. He removed the pack, and as he was about to shoot, out of the desert stepped Saint Anthony, ‘Alt!’

“When the monk offered to take the demonic little evil mule for an exorcism, the Bedouin lowered the gun. I think Saint Anthony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert, wanted someone to talk to. The Bedouin donated the mule, mounted the camel, and rode off into the desert, never to be seen since that time. The hermit monk took the little tike under his dusty robe and led him into the desert where henceforth from that day forth neither of them was ever seen or heard from again. Okay, so I made that part up. He took Mel to raise and to protect and to teach – whew, and did he ever! When the Jews settled and started moshavim in the area, this moshav was started. One day, fence and fence posts appeared from one end of the farm to the other end, and from the border to the road. The next day, when the fence went up from post to post, encompassing these pastures, Mel stood in the middle of everything, where he’s been ever since, in the middle of everything.”

“Really,” Beatrice said. “Is any of this true?”

“All I know is what I hear. Then repeat it. I’m like my father that way. We’re parrots and great gossips who can never keep secrets. Of course, it’s true. You see the hermit monk of legend, and his protégé, the mule pope of legend too, don’t you?”

“Where were you? Were you here, too, at the time?”

“Oh, please, this is not about me, but since you asked. I was but a little chick at the time, still in my cage, swinging on my perch, singing, learning art, philosophy, happy as a lark, living up there in the big house, when all of a sudden. I’ll save that one for another time. Let it suffice to say it had something to do with my singing. I can sing too. I’m talented and creative. I’m left-taloned. Jesus, thank goodness they were Commie-bastard unorthodox Jews or I’d be singing a different tune. Here’s one of my personal favorites,

‘Nobody loves me, but my mother, and she could be jiving too . . .

(Spoken)

What I want to know now is what are we going to do?’

“Unlike Marvelous Mel the Magnificent, I can’t answer that. The future doesn’t reveal itself in little revelations doled out from personal prophecies.” A small group of Muslims, mostly boys, from the nearby village, gathered stones. “But wait! Dare I say, I think I know what’s coming next?” They started after the monk when he turned and disappeared into the desert walls of the Sinai. “Aren’t mammals lovely,” Julius said. “Someday I plan to have one as a pet.”

Mel moved away from the border to graze among the sheep and rams at the base of the terraced slopes.

“Somebody has to keep that mule in check. What he’s trying to do to the animals is very dangerous, preying on their ignorance and fears. Once it takes hold it will be almost impossible to undo and reverse the damage done.”

“Seriously, Julius,” Beatrice said, “what does it matter?”

“In the name of Jesus or some other such nonsense, The Holy See will see to it that we’re dead.”

“Who’s that?” asked one of the younger animals, a kid.

“It’s nothing,” Blaise said.

“Who is Jesus?” asked a little lamb.

“Never mind,” Blaise said. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”