And so, the scheme to seize new territory entered its decisive phase — to appropriate Frau Schwein's former property no longer looked like much of a problem, and the Swine Council emerged with its image unscathed. After all, the adders and hamsters had simply become hooked on homebrew; couldn't that happen to anyone?12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQWZuH90odS
And by the way — where had Frau Schwein's riches gone?
One more twist that had been festering in Poond's mind since Napoleon's deathbed confession deserves noting. The Leader's speech had been something of a bore — and what a godsend Billy's lapse of nerve had turned out to be! — but the real core of what the old boar had got right was that revolutionary values and principles, sheep-goats with their personalities, and all the rest of it, paled beside the main objective: the potato field and its legendary yields. Every farm in the south of England envied Mr Pilkington, and the pigs, naturally, couldn't stomach it.
Mindful of history, Poond had no doubt for a single second that humans were by nature evil, greedy, and would never part with anything for nothing. So various options had to be weighed — including the one that would truly be a nightmare for Mr Pilkington: military conquest. As would soon become clear, Poond was remarkably well informed about the state of affairs at Foxwood — specifically, that the livestock there was sleek and strong, and that Mr Pilkington's bull Poseidon alone could send the entire pack of Animal Farm Rottweilers running. As for the pigs on Mr Pilkington's farm — they were proper pigs, who couldn't give a damn about the values of Animal Farm, who loved their master, and loved their farm.
Long ago, after the Rebellion, Napoleon had discovered, behind a chest of drawers in the runaway Jones's house, some tattered war comics — which Harold the goat had not yet sunk his teeth into — and, flipping through them out of boredom, had picked up a trick or two about military tactics: specifically, that one must attack from two sides. And now that scrap of strategic wisdom proved useful — in the campaign against Foxwood, should it come to that, Poond would deploy the ancient manoeuvre known as "pincers" — striking Mr Pilkington and his livestock from two sides at once: from Animal Farm, and from the small town with the spiders-pooed name.
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So what exactly had Moses the raven croaked to Billy from that windowsill? The second part of Poond and Billy's plan, as we recall, was to "persuade" the unwanted half of the animals — the prison inmates aside — to up sticks and head for the zoo. "A neat little move," Squealer approved, once he'd been let into the secret. "All the South of England will see that we are taking progressive values to the outside world. Our animals themselves, of their own free will, have chosen such a courageous — I might even say missionary — step, and now every farm, every village, will have no choice but to admire us.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLxI4LzpFiI
"And if they don't admire us, admire us they shall," Poond added to himself, with a nod to Napoleon's Commandments.
For this, Billy needed Moses. For two weeks, he fawned over the old raven and fussed about him, his little tail whirring non-stop like a demented propeller, filled his bowl three times a day with the finest grain, and even brought him dead mice on occasion. Once the old, credulous bird had been thoroughly won over, Billy let him in on the gist of the scheme — that he was to fly north, to where, supposedly, the scoundrels plotting to attack Animal Farm lived, and there 'overhear' what they had to say.
And so, around noon, in the middle of Animal Farm, the eternal Moses was discovered, having reappeared from goodness knows where. He glided down softly, folded his wings against his sides, and began strolling among the animals with a knowing look. At first, no one paid him any attention. This went down badly with Moses, so he marched up to Harold, who was gnawing at a scrawny currant bush, and planted a light peck on his hind leg just above the hoof. The goat turned in surprise, and there was the raven, nodding and winking with great significance, beckoning him aside.
Soon, Harold the goat learned that Moses had returned from the north, where he'd been snooping to see how the humans expelled from the southern farms were getting on: they were still nursing plans to reclaim what had once been theirs "by right," and cooking up all sorts of dreadful schemes. Someone — at this point Moses glanced around warily — had tipped them off that the farm was bursting at the seams, that the animals slept in heaps, took it in turns to eat, and filed along in single file just to leave the Swine Council room to pass. Such foul rumours, Moses declared, were being peddled day and night by Mr Frederick, the former owner of neighbouring Pinchfield — and Moses had caught it all from outside a pub window, where Frederick could be heard each evening, bemoaning his misfortunes at length.
"This is just what we need!" Mr Frederick shouted, all but foaming at the mouth. "We can use gas!"12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5Ivy4nfEkn
"That's expensive," someone objected. “Have you any idea what chlorine cylinders cost?”12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmXtSaknbQa
"And you've got to get the chlorine from somewhere," another chimed in. "That won't come cheap either."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5Lk1HKYhwG
"So what?" Mr Frederick suddenly found an ally. "We can all chip in. Are we going to let those buggers get away with it?"12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡX1O1fslHfA
"Right!" voices rang out from the corners of the pub. "Time to take back what's ours!"
The more Harold took in, the more his eyes darkened — a shadow was settling over Animal Farm once more. The hushed exchange between the raven and the goat did not pass unnoticed: first the ducks began to glance over with curiosity, then the geese, then the rabbits… An invisible wave of tension, like a stone dropped into still water, spread in ripples across the yard, and one by one the animals found themselves drifting towards the pair. Even Muriel, the cat who usually could not have cared less, felt the pull — perched on the back of a young horse, she feigned detachment, licking her front paws fastidiously, but her ears were pricked for every last word from the old raven.
All but unnoticed, Peter and Binom slipped into the gathering — the pair who had each taken a hit to his own liver in the zoo. By now they had shaken off their delirium tremens and were primed to carry out the Swine Council's orders. Making a show of having nothing better to do than gaze at the clouds, they settled quietly at the edge of the crowd and began to watch — closely.
And so the angel of the Apocalypse — Moses — having finished his speech, raised his beak importantly to the sky and fell silent. A hush fell over the farm: some pictured the fleshy, rage-purple faces of farmers boiling over into battle; others saw the black shapes of thousands of pitchforks and hoes raised against a blood-red sunset. Both visions promised the same — death for the four-legged. For the survivors — eternal slavery… "De-e-e-ath…" a ragged bleat rose from the sheep. "De-e-e-ath and woe-e-e…"12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkPiFllLp9R
Peter and Binom swapped a look of smug satisfaction.
Benjamin Jr. turned sad eyes to Moses and asked, almost pleading: "So what are we to do? There has to be a way out."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbsod4yy81A
Moses flashed the white film over his eye: "There must."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp7mHjjHQzh
"We shall fight!" came the battle cry of a young colt. "We shall fight, as we fought before, as our forefathers fought! Victory or death!"
"Yes," Benjamin continued in his philosophical manner, "but who knows how many there are, and what they'll come with? And when?" The crowd began to stir, but then the donkey raised a dangerous question: "And what if they don't come at all?.."
The mere thought sent the geese into transports of delight; they cackled with glee and flapped their wings. The chickens and turkeys chimed in. Moses shot a contemptuous look at the brainless poultry and, with an elaborate parade step, strode along Harold the goat's back from tail to withers.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSOLVFyohRG
"Without the shadow of a doubt, they will come, comrades!" the raven croaked, though to some his voice no longer carried the same conviction.
"Well, all right, then!" Scarlett the goose cut in, stepping into the middle of the circle. "Let's suppose they do come. That gives us two choices: a bad one and a good one. The bad one's war — again. But what's the good one? Anyone?"
"Yes," Binom grunted from behind the backs of the gathered animals, and, clearing a path with his snout, shouldered his way to the centre. Glancing about with shifty little eyes, he dropped his voice to a whisper: "Comrades, secret information has just reached us that..."
For the next half-hour, Binom held forth on Frau Schwein's zoo, and he played it deftly, with one aim only — half the animals were to be won over, the other half left uncertain. The speech had been written the night before by Poond himself, carefully packed with arguments both for and against. Particular care had gone into the closing line: "Comrades, as I have already said, the information about the zoo is strictly secret. I ask you — not a word to anyone!"
"Comrades, as I have already said, the information about the zoo is strictly secret. I ask you — not a word to anyone!" — Binom concluded, delivering his secret message with due gravity.
The animals nodded with knowing gravely and immediately dispersed, each on a mission to find anyone who hadn't yet heard the news of Frau Schwein's zoo. All through the evening and deep into the night, conspiratorial whispers rustled from every nook of the farm:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1sr4asTgNs
"Not a word to anyone!"12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMdZXeQ1nnH
"Well... I don't know... On one hoof, it's troubling, on the other... No, I need to think!"
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The sun was barely up when a caravan of carts pulled out, hit the main road, and made for the small town with the spiders-pooed name. Out front lumbered two enormous carts, crammed with chickens, geese, turkeys, and their broods, along with tools and building materials for the settlers to get themselves settled.
Behind them came another, smaller cart, pulled by the eternally undecided donkey, Benjamin Jr., snorting softly as he went. He had spent the entire night weighing every possible pro and con, and, finding himself no closer to a decision, settled on casting lots. For this purpose, he picked up a flat pebble, damp on one side, and decided: should it come down dry side up, he would stay on Animal Farm; wet side up, he would not go anywhere at all. But when he tossed it, the pebble didn't land — it lodged sideways between the bars of the fence. The donkey stared at it mournfully and concluded there was no escaping his fate. Still, he let out a heavy sigh and began loading his cart with feed for the whole convoy, along with a few bundles of fresh carrots — by way of gifts, in case the welcome was warm.
In the fourth cart, pulled by Harold the goat, beneath a straw parasol, fanning herself with lazy satisfaction and snorting with barely contained glee, lounged Tart — appointed by Poond as the head of the coming settlement. Her dreams of breaking free from the old boars of the Council were already beginning to take flesh. That she was sharper and more devious than all of them put together was beyond dispute, and the lady pig's head swam with schemes — how to manage the livestock, both those from Animal Farm and those already there; how to run things, and how to run them her way. All in all, the whole business seemed infinitely more enticing than hanging about Animal Farm, even in her own private room, where clean sheets were laid on the bed every day — a luxury that had caused quite a stir among the animals when it first began.
Some recalled an old commandment — the fourth, it seemed, of the seven from the Rebellion: "No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets." A lively debate broke out as to whether someone had got things muddled. But Squealer, happening to pass by, promptly and with great wisdom set them straight: none of the Swine Council had ever broken that commandment, nor had they the slightest intention of doing so — the very idea! — since sleeping on sheets was quite different from sleeping with sheets, after all. With that, the discussion was closed, and all went their separate ways, perfectly content.
So Tart found the whole relocation business more than merely interesting. Harold the goat had once told her about a wild place on the planet — very wild and far away — where, long ago, a gang of outsiders had landed, blasted away most of the natives, doped the survivors and herded them into reservations, grown obscenely rich, and turned the whole place into a commercial enterprise.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhY2B3yVUWE
"How delightful!" Tart exclaimed, deciding that fate had just thrown her an opportunity.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzTj31rZsi0
So when Poond asked, "Agree?" she rolled her eyes and gave a nod of reluctant consent:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡonjXlzuTFv
"All right, so be it..."
And now, unfurling her straw parasol, Tart gave herself over to blissful thoughts of finally being rid of the whole piggish crew of the Council. Between us, she fully intended to return — but in a very different capacity. In what capacity?
Napoleon, withered by age and a pickled liver, had cut her deep with his dying mutter — the name of the wrong successor under his breath. Oh, not that one! What was she, then? Some worthless scrap who'd squandered half her life under the Leader for nothing? Not on your life! In her head, the whole arrangement looked very different — no Poonds, no Billys, no Draculas, no Squealers! The old shitass had finally lost his wits altogether, she fumed as she stormed out of the Leader's bedchamber that fateful day. So what of it that she had caught Napoleon with a young piglet a couple of months earlier? The Leader had explained to them both that times were hard, the Revolution was in peril, and cadre work mattered more than ever. Loser — that was the name of the pink little piglet with the tuft on his crown — had nodded along the whole time, casting sly glances at Tart. And she too had nodded in agreement with Napoleon, sighing all the while that there was no other way, that only cadre work could save the harvest.
And then Loser disappeared. Rumours ran wild, until Tart herself put the story about — she had seen him fleeing north, to where the humans lived, the enemies of all free animals.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj3IlTRGIAM
"The scum sold out!" the wise Napoleon seized on at once, turning away with a well-timed gesture, as if to hide a tear.
To soothe the Leader, Tart drew him aside and asked, all politeness, whether he might have any objection to handing over the reins to her after his death — before all the details came out... Napoleon was struck dumb, his eyes bloodshot... But in a moment he'd pulled himself together, calmed down, and suggested she take the matter up with the Rottweilers — if they had no objection, neither would he. Discuss that with the Rottweilers while the Leader was still upright and breathing!.. "No, he's finally lost it," Tart realised. But what she said aloud was:
"Nah, they won't mind. After all, they're the ones who tore your Loser to pieces" — and that was the only true thing she'd ever said. "You wouldn't believe it," — a tear even rolled down her cheek — "but some rat squealed on you two!"
Who the rat was, Napoleon never discovered, and to his dying day he laid it all at the door of Vanessa the duck, who cleaned his bedroom each morning. But be that as it may — a Leader is a Leader, after all — and he chose only the worthy successor. So Tart didn't bat an eyelid when Napoleon, with the same exquisite politeness, asked her to stage in Pinchfield the very sort of revolt he had pulled off on Animal Farm.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIiVXhrqjN5
"Then we'll see," he added with a cryptic air.
Cookies! Tart was crazy about cookies. Few realise it, but there are plenty of places where a revolution can be had for good cookies. And Tart soon became a regular — though secret — visitor to Pinchfield. It proved laughably easy — Mr Frederick was far too busy with his evening tipple to keep count of the livestock in his barn (one pig more, one pig less — who was counting?), and it wasn't long before every creature on the farm was eating out of Tart's hoof, worshipping her and her baking. Munching dreamily on cookies, the Pinchfielders after a couple of weeks finally grasped the great truth that Man was miserable, worthless, greedy, and...
In short, Napoleon was mightily pleased when Mr Frederick fled Pinchfield with his heels blazing. And to the question frozen in Tart's eyes, he grunted again, with a dark hint:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiT3Th6ipvX
"Everything will be fine — as long as you don't talk too much."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAyVdwxDb4E
And then Poond took over the Council... Seriously?
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Tart glanced back — the caravan of carts had lurched into motion, and behind it, like infantry straggling after a tank assault, trudged the broken ranks of all those who still believed in their shining future.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡieit6yc5id
The road to Frau Schwein's zoo still stretched ahead...
and then Add to home screen.