Snowball's Chance (10 page)

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

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 with 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.

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.