Читать книгу Pigs In Paradise - Roger Maxson - Страница 9

Before the arrival of the red calf, Mel, the mule priest, revealed prophecy of things to come, namely a savior. A savior to save the animals from this world of human bondage.

“Mel keeps going on about a messiah who’ll save us from our misery,” Blaise said. She and Beatrice walked through the pasture up the slope for the shade of the great olive tree. “Elevate us from our suffering.”

“I don’t know about you, Blaise. I’m not doing so badly myself,” Beatrice said, “considering our present conditions.” She and Blaise were both heavy with pregnancies.

“Well, I should hope so,” Blaise said, “As I’ve said, no one messes with you, not with a saddle, not with Stanley.”

“Yes, well obviously he did this time.”

“Yes, this time,” Blaise laughed, “but only because you wanted him to.”

“And now look at me! It was nice, though, just as I’m sure it was for you and Bruce.”

“Please, Beatrice, I’d rather not dwell on poor wonderful Bruce. It’s awfully sad what happened, I’m sorry.”

Bruce, a shell of his former self, stood near the water tank in the feedlot behind the barn.

“Yes, of course. Other than that, though, you seem to be all right.”

“Yes, well, I have you as a friend, don’t I,” Blaise said.

“Yes, who said only birds of a feather flock together?”

“The end is nigh,” shouted the yellow hen as she darted between them. “Better have your houses in order, for the end is nigh.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not birds then, don’t you think?”

“I think Julius is beginning to rub off on you.”

“There are worse things, I suppose.”

“Blaise, you’re all aglow in milk chocolate, and creamy too.”

“The laborers relieve me of the extra weight and pressure of the milk so sweetly. Not only that, but it’s almost a massage the way it feels. It tickles the gentle way they milk me.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Beatrice said. “I imagine that’s one molesting I wouldn’t mind having, but as a horse, a mare, they don’t bother.”

The two friends stopped short of the shade offered by the olive tree. In the middle of the pasture stood a large unfamiliar animal down the slope near the back fence. As their eyes came into focus, adjusting to the distance and bright sunlight, they saw a strange-looking, and possibly feral boar. Although a Berkshire and typically black, with a white ring around its neck, this boar was lean, about 250 pounds, with a sun-dried, sun-bleached, reddish hide. He also had a pair of white tusks that protruded from his frothing jowls.

Julius flew over and landed in the branches of the olive tree. “We’re saved,” he shouted and moved in the branches. “Look, everybody, we’re saved, I tell you! We’re saved. That pig has a plan and it’s written in stone.”

Mel trotted from the barn out to greet the boar.

“Is that mule trotting? Quick, somebody, get a camera so we can be witnesses to history or a conspiracy theory.”

Mel met the boar in the middle of the pasture, not far from where Mel had once stood when the fence had come up around him. On the Egyptian side, the hermit monk of the Sinai Desert, Saint Anthony, glanced over his shoulder as he disappeared into the fabric of the desert walls, undetected by his Muslim neighbors.

“Blaise, I believe those tusks a loosa.”

“I wouldn’t know, Julius. I’ve never been there.”

“What are you, wise?”

“Well, I should think so,” Blaise said.

“Won’t you marry me, Blaise, or live with me in sin? What I’m trying to say is I’d like some chocolate milk, please.”

“Coming right up, sir,” said Blaise.

“What do you say we blow this joint and fly away together?”

“Julius, you’re overlooking the fact that I’m a cow and a very pregnant one at that.”

“I beg your pardon? No, I haven’t. As luck would have it, we happen to have our very own handy-dandy miracle worker just dropped in our backyard. I’d be remiss if we didn’t take it to him. I mean, if he can’t midwife a calf and make a cow grow wings and fly, what kind of miracle worker is he? Blaise, if you won’t fly, neither will I. But if you will, I’ll meet you on the other side of the moon. How’d you like that, honeymoon over the moon?”

“I’m afraid, Julius. I’m afraid of heights.”

“Oh, my goodness, so am I! Blaise, we have so much in common. Do you like apples?”

“Yes, I like apples and prefer to keep my feet on the ground. However, if you ever get tired of flying, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Oh, you, naughty girl,” he said as they witnessed a miracle in progress. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Would you look at that?” In the middle of the pasture, Mel kneeled to one knee and the boar climbed onto his back. Mel straightened to begin the journey up the slope toward the pond. “That beast has borne the burden of that boar. I think what we are witnessing here is a miracle of biblical proportion. Say, wait a minute. That mule has gotten behind the cart. Oh, what difference does it make? We already know that old, oft-repeated, worn-out story anyway. Well, at least now we can cut to the chase and in 12 hours call it a day.”

Mel made his way to the pond. He bowed and the boar slid off.

“Well, Julius,” Blaise said, “you did say Mel was strong for his age and size.”

“Yes, I did, but now for a mule his age and size, he’s just stubborn.”

Howard emerged from his pigsty and waded out into the pond to cool in the afternoon sun. Mel left the two boars and went into the pasture to graze while remaining within earshot.

“Look,” someone said, “he’s walking on water!”

The Berkshire boar waded out in the shallow end.

“Oh, please,” Julius said. “We’ll never hear the end of this one.”

“I suppose you think that’s a miracle too?” Beatrice said.

Julius shook his head. “It’s a miracle you can think and talk,” he said and glanced at Blaise. “Well, talk anyway.”

Molly, the Border Leicester, as she nursed her twin lambs said, “Perhaps he’ll return Bruce to his former glory?”

“He might perform tricks and pull a rabbit out of his ass because he doesn’t have a hat, and make the lame walk, Beatrice talk, and the blind see, but returning Bruce to his former self, I’m afraid that’ll happen when pigs fly.”

“According to the barn boar, Joseph, pigs do fly,” Beatrice spoke.

“Well, duh,” Julius said. “Everyone knows that. Joseph, who happens to be the father of our newly arrived savior Boris, is correct. All you have to do is die. Then go to heaven. And, and then to earn your wings, all you have to do is whistle a happy tune and grovel.”

“Well, then, maybe he can help,” Beatrice spoke again.

“It’s a miracle,” Julius said and flapped his wings.

“Let’s ask him,” Beatrice added. “It can’t hurt.”

“Yes, of course, surely he’ll do it for the glory of his father who art in heaven.”

“I thought Joseph was his father?”

“He’s adopted.”

The Large White waded out to the interloper, his snout an inch from the Berkshire’s snout, almost touching at times.

“Cousin,” Howard the Baptist said.

“Don’t kiss me,” the boar replied.

“Wonder if he’s completely feral or only half?” Beatrice pondered.

“I’m afraid the half that thinks,” Julius said.

“So, it is you who has returned,” said Howard, “the seventh piglet of the seventh liter of Sal the Sow, Boris, the runt of the liter.”

“I am who they say I am.”

Howard baptized the pig, pouring muddy water over the head and shoulders of Boris, the Berkshire Boar.

“I protest.”

“I believe you protest too much.”

“I am without sin.”

“You’re still a pig. Besides, if you plan to be led by the tusks by the mule, you’ll need all the help you can get. He is bad news, but I’ll let you discover just how narrow the path is for yourself. But heed my warning, he is not a brother or a friend to the pig or any animal for that matter.”

“You forget, friend, I am He who was sent by my Father to save all domesticated farm animals from sin and a life spent in captivity.”

“Where do you plan to lead your sinners, messiah?”

“To freedom, paradise found among the mountains of the Sinai and away from this place, the corruption of civilization.”

“Oh, of course, the garden,” Howard said incredulously. “Stay here with me under the stars. Do not follow the mule or the hermit monk, for it is they who will lead you down the path of destruction.”

“It is because of them that I am here,” Boris said, “to deliver us from evil.”

“Who will deliver you from evil?”

As Mel approached the pond, Boris took his position next to him. “You are good and pure,” Mel said, “beyond sin. You will do your charges well.” Mel looked at the Baptist. Then turned away to join the others.

“And your daddy’s will,” Howard snorted.

* * *

The other animals, including Mel by this time, stood under the branches of the great olive tree out of the sun and watched in amazement as the two boars rammed each other, shoved, butted heads, pushing against one another until finally the newly baptized had had enough, and retreated from the pond and wandered off.

That night for reasons known only to the moshavnik Perelman, he separated the Jersey from the others and placed her in the stall with the newly arrived boar. Between the laborers, though, rumor had it that Perelman may have wanted the two, the Jersey and the Berkshire boar, to mate even though she was a cow already freshened with a calf, and he was a pig, something about wanting the reddish-coated hide rubbing off on her.

“Oh, I don’t like being called a pig. I mean, I am what I am, and I like who I am. I’m Boris the Boar, the Great Wild Boar, Savior of all animals, great and small. Or at least I shall be. For now, though, I’ll settle for the Great Wild Boar of the West. It’s the name pig, though, and as far as pigs go, we are loathed by so many of the human species. We have humans to blame for this, of course, and one man in particular for all this name-calling business. Oh, how I’d love for our species across the earth to go by another name, like buffalo. I’ve always liked the name buffalo or bison. I can imagine life for us would be very different if we were buffalo. Or gazelle! Doesn’t that have a lovely ring to it, gazelle? Gazelle pigs, lean and muscular and strong, of course, and able to go out into the world proud, not afraid to hold their heads up.”

“Then Muhammad would no longer be a friend to the pig.”

“Yes, there’d be tradeoffs. I shouldn’t complain, really. Call us what they may, we’d still be pigs in the eyes of many and loathed no matter what we’re called. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have been called cockroaches.”

“Why were you and Howard fighting?” Blaise said. “Not long after he baptized you, you both were fighting, butting heads?”

“He said he was perfect, and the bigger pig, but I, being who I am, pushed back, because I am the greater boar.”

Had she not already fallen asleep Blaise would have agreed.