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[[An Obvious Ripoff of Orwell]] Chapter 7 ~ The Crazy Farm~ IT was a bitter winter. The stormy weather was followed by sleet and snow, and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into February. The Herdsmen carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the Nuclear Power, well knowing that the outside world was watching them and that the envious CEO whore men would rejoice and triumph if the Nuclear Power were not finished on time or work. Out of spite, the Inhuman CEO beings pretended not to believe that it was Klinton who had destroyed the Nuclear Power: they said that it had fallen down because the walls were too thin. The Herds knew that this was not the case because King George had said so. Still, it had been decided to build the walls three feet thick this time instead of eighteen inches as before, which meant collecting much larger quantities of stone. For a long time the quarry was full of snowdrifts and nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry frosty weather that followed, but it was cruel work, and the Herdsmen could not feel so hopeful about it as they had felt before. They were always cold, and usually hungry as well. Only Prole and Cloture never lost heart. Wolfowizz made excellent speeches on the joy of service and the dignity of labour, but the other Herds found more inspiration in Prole's strength and his never-failing cry of "I will work harder! " In January food fell short. The corn ration was drastically reduced, and it was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up for it. Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop had been frosted in the clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough. The potatoes had become soft and discoloured, and only a few were edible. For days at a time the Herdsmen had nothing to eat but chaff and Mangels. Starvation seemed to stare them in the face. It was vitally necessary to conceal this fact from the outside world. Emboldened by the collapse of the Nuclear Power, the Inhuman CEO beings were inventing fresh lies about Crazy Farm. Once again it was being put about that all the Herds were dying of corruption and disease, famine and Murder, and that they were continually fighting among themselves and had resorted to cannibalism and infanticide. King George was well aware of the bad results that might follow if the real facts of the food situation were known, and he decided to make use of Mr. Wimpie to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the Herdsmen had had little or no contact with Wimpie on his weekly visits: now, however, a few selected Herds, mostly media whore sheep, were instructed to remark casually in his hearing that rations had been increased. In addition, King George ordered the almost empty bins in the store-shed to be filled nearly to the brim with sand, which was then covered up with what remained of the grain and meal. On some suitable pretext Wimpie was led through the store-shed and allowed to catch a glimpse of the bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the outside world that there was no food shortage on Crazy Farm. Nevertheless, towards the end of January it became obvious that it would be necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In these days King George rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the farmhouse, which was guarded at each door by a fat doughy-looking Rover. When he did emerge, it was in a ceremonial Manner, with an escort of six Rovers who closely surrounded him and wrote down names if anyone came too near. Frequently he did not even appear on Sunday mornings, but issued his orders through one of the other Neo-Cons, usually Wolfowizz. One Sunday morning Wolfowizz announced that the hens, who had just come in to lay again, must surrender their eggs. King George had accepted, through Wimpie, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would pay for enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on and conditions were easier. When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible squawk. They had been warned earlier that this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not believed that it would really happen. They were just getting their clutches ready for the spring sitting, and they protested that to take the eggs away now was murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Rottenchild, there was something resembling a revolution. Led by three young Black Minorca pullets, the hens made a determined effort to thwart King George's wishes. Their method was to fly up to the rafters and there lay their eggs, which smashed to pieces on the floor. King George acted swiftly and ruthlessly. He ordered the wayward hens' rations to be stopped, and decreed that any Herdsmen giving so much as a grain of corn to a rebellious hen should be punished by death. The Rovers saw to it that these orders were carried out. For five days the hens held out, then they capitulated and went back to their nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the meantime. Their bodies were buried in the orchard, and it was given out that they had died of coccidiosis. Wimpie heard nothing of this affair, and the eggs were duly delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week to take them away. All this while no more had been seen of Klinton. He was rumoured to be hiding on one of the neighbouring farms, either Fauxwood or Stenchfield. King George was by this time on slightly better terms with the other lobbyists than before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which had been stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared. It was well seasoned, and Wimpie had advised King George to sell it; both Mr. Filthington and Mr. Frederick were anxious to buy it. King George was hesitating between the two, unable to make up his mind. It was noticed that whenever he seemed on the point of coming to an agreement with Frederick, Klinton was declared to be in hiding at Fauxwood, while, when he inclined toward Filthington, Klinton was said to be at Stenchfield. Suddenly, early in the spring, an alarming thing was discovered. Klinton was secretly frequenting the farm by night! The Herdsmen were so disturbed that they could hardly sleep in their stalls. Every night, it was said, he came creeping in under cover of darkness and performed all kinds of mischief. He stole the corn, he upset the milk-pails, he broke the eggs, he trampled the seedbeds, he gnawed the bark off the fruit trees. Whenever anything went wrong it became usual to attribute it to Klinton. If a window was broken or a drain was blocked up, someone was certain to say that Klinton had come in the night and done it, and when the key of the store-shed was lost, the whole farm was convinced that Klinton had thrown it down the well. Curiously enough, they went on believing this even after the mislaid key was found under a sack of meal. The moronic cows declared unanimously that Klinton crept into their stalls and milked them in their sleep. The dirty Rat Lobbyists, which had been troublesome that winter, were also said to be in league with Klinton. King George decreed that there should be a full Senate investigation into Klinton's activities. With his Rovers in attendance he set out and made a careful round of inspection of the farm buildings, the other Herdsmen following at a respectful distance. At every few steps King George stopped and snuffed the ground for traces of Klinton's footsteps, which, he said, he could detect by the smell. He snuffed in every corner, in the barn, in the cow-shed, in the henhouses, in the vegetable garden, and found traces of Klinton almost everywhere. He would put his snout to the ground, give several deep sniffs, then exclaim in a terrible voice, "Klinton! He has been here! I can smell him that wretched terrorist distinctly!" and at the word "Klinton" all the Rovers let out blood-curdling whine and showed their side teeth. The Herdsmen were thoroughly frightened. It seemed to them as though Klinton were some kind of invisible influence, pervading the air about them effortlessly and menacing them with all kinds of dangers known and unknown. In the evening Wolfowizz called them together, and with an alarmed expression on his face told them that he had some very very serious news to report. "O' Great Herdsmen!" cried Wolfowizz, making little nervous skips, "a most terrible thing has been discovered. Klinton has sold himself to Frederick of Stenchfield Farm, who is even now plotting to attack us with weapons of a most horrid nature and take our farm away from us! Klinton is to act as his guide when the attack begins. But there is worse than that. We had thought that Klinton's revolution was caused simply by his vanity and ambition. But we were wrong, Herdsmen, we were sold bad intelligence. Do you want to know what the terrible real reason was? Klinton was in league with RottenChild from the very start! He was Rottschilds' double secret agent all the time. It has all been proved by classified documents that we can't show you due to National Security, King George has found these plans which he left behind him and which we have only just recently discovered. To my mind this explains a great deal, Herdsmen. Did we not see for ourselves how he attempted-fortunately without success-to get us defeated and destroyed at the Battle of the Bullcrap?" The Herds were stupefied. This was a wickedness far outdoing Klinton's destruction of the Nuclear Power. But it was some minutes before they could fully take it in. They all remembered, or thought they remembered, how they had seen Klinton charging ahead of them at the Battle of the Bullcrap, how he had rallied and encouraged them at every turn, and how he had not paused for an instant even when the pellets from Rottenchilds gun had wounded his back. At first it was a little difficult to see how this fitted in with his being on RottenChilds side. Even Prole, who seldom asked questions, was very puzzled. He lay down, tucked his fore hoofs beneath him, shut his eyes, squinted them further as if to see, and with a hard effort Managed to formulate his thoughts. "I do not believe that," he said. "Klinton fought bravely at the Battle of the Bullcrap?. I saw him myself. Did we not give him 'Herd Hero, first Class,' immediately afterwards?" "That was our mistake, Herdsman Prole. For we know now-it is all written down in the super secret documents that we have found-that in reality he was trying to sell us off luring us to our doom." "But he was wounded," said Prole. "We all saw him running with blood." "That was part of the Ploy!" cried Wolfowizz. "Rottenchild' only shot to graze him. I could show you this in his own writing, the Secret documents, that is if you were able to read it. The plot was for Klinton, at the critical moment, to give the signal for flight and abandon the field to the enemy. And he very nearly succeeded-I will even say, Herdsmen, he would have succeeded if it had not been for our heroic Leader, King George. Do you not remember how, just at the moment when RottenChild and his men had got inside the yard, Klinton suddenly turned and fled, and Many of the Herdsmen followed him? And do you not remember, too, that it was just at that moment, when panic was spreading and all seemed lost, that King George sprang forward with a cry of 'Death to Terrorists!' and sank his teeth in Rottenchilds' leg? Surely you remember that vivid moment, Herdsmen?" exclaimed Wolfowizz, frisking from side to side, tail whipping smartly, knowingly somehow. Now when Wolfowizz described the scene so graphically, it seemed to the Herdsmen yes, we are not stupid, sure we remember now. Not that they did remember it. At any rate, they remembered that at the critical moment of the battle Klinton had turned to flee. But Prole was still a little uneasy and with a feeling of swimming in jello he formed emoted a thought "I do not believe that Klinton was a traitor at the beginning," he said finally. "What he has done since is different. But I believe that at the Battle of the Bullcrap he was a good Herd Member." "Our Leader, King George," announced Wolfowizz, speaking very slowly and firmly, "has stated categorically-categorically, Herdsmen, undeniably, accurately, that Klinton was Rottenchilds agent from the very beginning-yes, and from long before the Rebellion was ever thought of." "Ah, that is different!" said Prole. "If King George says it, it must be wrong, And I must work Harder to make up for that." "That is the true spirit O' Herdsman Prole!" cried Wolfowizz, but it was noticed he cast a very ugly look at Prole with his little beady hitlerish eyes. He turned to go, then paused and added impressively: "I warn every Herd on this farm to keep his eyes very wide open. For we have reason to think that some of Klinton's secret agents, the Terrorist's, are lurking among us at this very moment! " Four days later, in the late afternoon, King George ordered all the Herdsmen to assemble in the yard. When they were all gathered together, King George emerged from the farmhouse, wearing both his medals (for he had recently awarded himself "Animal Herd Hero, First Class," and "Animal Herd Hero, Second Class"), with his nine fat bald Rover Dogs frisking round him and uttering threats that sent shivers down all the Herds' spines. They all cowered silently in their places, seeming to know in advance that some terrible thing was about to happen. King George stood sternly surveying his audience; then he uttered a high-pitched whimper. Immediately the Rover Rovers' bounded forward, seized four of the Neo-Cons by the ear and dragged them, squealing with pain and terror, to King George's feet. The Neo-Cons' ears were bleeding, the Rover Dogs had tasted blood, and for a few moments they appeared to go quite mad. To the amazement of everybody, three of them flung themselves upon Prole. Prole saw them coming and put out his great hoof, caught a Rover in mid-air, and pinned him to the ground. The inbred mutt shrieked for mercy and the other two fled with their tails between their legs. Prole looked at King George to know whether he should crush the dog to death or let it go. King George appeared to change countenance, and sharply ordered Prole to let the dog go, whereat Prole lifted his hoof, and the Rover slunk away, bruised and howling. Presently the tumult died down. The four Repignicans waited, trembling, with guilt written on every line of their countenances. King George now called upon them to confess their crimes. They were the same four Repignicans as had protested when King George abolished the Sunday Meetings. Without any further prompting or waterboarding they confessed that they had been secretly in touch with Klinton ever since his expulsion, that they had collaborated with him in destroying the Nuclear Power, and that they had entered into an agreement with him to hand over Crazy Farm to Mr. Frederick. They added that Klinton had privately admitted to them that he had been Rottenchilds secret agent for years past. When they had finished their confession, the Rovers promptly tore their throats out, and in a terrible Smirk King George demanded "Look -any other herdsmen have anything to confess? Bring it on". The three turncoat hens who had been the ringleaders in the attempted revolution over the eggs now came forward and stated that Klinton had appeared to them in a dream and incited them to disobey King George's orders. They, too, were slaughtered. Then a goose came forward and confessed to having secreted six ears of corn during the last year's harvest and eaten them in the night. Then a media whore sheep confessed to having urinated in the drinking pool-urged to do this, so she said, by Klinton. Two other media whore sheep confessed to having murdered an old ram named Gingrick, an especially devoted follower of King George, by chasing his largesse round and round an all you can eat salad bar when he was suffering from a cough. They were all slain on the spot. And so the tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of traiterous corpses lying before King George's feet and the air was heavy with the rusty smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of RottenChild. When it was all over, the remaining Herdsmen, except for the Neo-Cons and Rovers mutts, crept away in a group. They were horribly shaken and miserable. They did not know which was more shocking-the treachery of the Herdsmen who had leagued themselves with Klinton, or the cruel retribution they had just witnessed. In the old days there had often been scenes of bloodshed equally terrible, but it seemed to all of them that it was far worse now that it was happening among themselves. Since RottenChild had left the farm, until today, no Herdsmen had killed another Herdsmen. Not even a rat had been killed. They had made their way on to the little knoll where the half-finished Nuclear Power plant stood, and with one accord they all lay down as though huddling together for warmth-Cloture, Muriel, Kennyday, the cows, the media whore sheep, and a whole flock of geese and hens-everyone, indeed, except the cat, who had suddenly disappeared just before King George ordered the Herdsmen to assemble. For some time nobody spoke. Only Prole remained on his feet. He fidgeted to and fro, swishing his long black tail against his sides and occasionally uttering a little whinny of surprise. Finally he said: "I do not understand it. I would not have believed that such things could happen on our farm. It must be due to some fault in ourselves. The solution, as I see it, is to work harder. From now onwards I shall get up a full hour earlier in the mornings." And he moved off at his lumbering trot and made for the quarry. Having got there, he collected two successive loads of stone and dragged them down to the Nuclear Power before retiring for the night. The Herdsmen huddled about Cloture, not speaking. The knoll where they were lying gave them a wide prospect across the countryside. Most of Crazy Farm was within their view-the long pasture stretching down to the main road, the hayfield, the spinney, the drinking pool, the ploughed fields where the young wheat was thick and green, and the red roofs of the farm buildings with the smoke curling from the chimneys. It was a clear spring evening. The grass and the bursting hedges were gilded by the level rays of the sun. Never had the farm-and with a kind of surprise they remembered that it was their own farm, every inch of it their own property-appeared to the Herds so desirable a place. As Cloture looked down the hillside her eyes filled with tears. If she could have spoken her thoughts, it would have been to say that this was not what they had aimed at when they had set themselves years ago to work for the overthrow of the inhuman CEO whore men. These scenes of terror and slaughter were not what they had looked forward to on that night when old Major Con first stirred them to revolution. If she herself had had any picture of the future, it had been of a society of Herdsmen set free from hunger and the whip, all equal, each working according to his capacity, the strong protecting the weak, as she had protected the lost brood of dumb ducklings with her foreleg on the night of Major Con's speech. Instead-she did not know why-they had come to a time when no one dared speak his mind, when lying scandalous Rover mongoloids roamed everywhere, and when you had to watch your Herdsmen torn to pieces after confessing to shocking crimes. There was no thought of revolution or disobedience in her mind. She knew that, even as things were, they were far better off than they had been in the days of Rottenchild, and that before all else it was needful to prevent the return of the Inhuman CEO beings. Whatever happened she would remain faithful, work hard, carry out the orders that were given to her, and accept the leadership of King George. But still, it was not for this that she and all the other Herds had hoped and toiled. It was not for this that they had built the Nuclear Power Plant and faced the bullets of Rottenchilds gun. Such were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to express them. At last, feeling this to be in some way a substitute for the words she was unable to find, she began to sing Beasts of Empire. The other Herdsmen sitting round her took it up, and they sang it three times over-very tunefully, but slowly and mournfully, in a way they had never sung it before. They had just finished singing it for the third time when Wolfowizz, attended by two mongoloidal Rovers, approached them with the air of having something important to say. He announced that, by a special decree of King George, Beasts of Empire had been abolished. From now onwards it was forbidden to sing it. The Herdsmen were taken aback. "Why?" cried Muriel. "It's no longer needed, Herdsmen," said Wolfowizz stiffly. "Beasts of Empire was the song of the Rebellion. But the Rebellion is now completed. The execution of the traitors this afternoon was the final act. The enemy both external and internal has been defeated. In Beasts of Empire we expressed our longing for a better society in days to come. But that society has now been established. Clearly this song has no longer any purpose." Frightened though they were, some of the Herdsmen might possibly have protested, but at this moment the media whore sheep set up their usual bleating of "Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad," which went on for several minutes and put an end to the discussion. So Beasts of Empire was heard no more. In its place Minimus, the poet, had composed another song which began: Crazy Farm, Crazy Farm, Never through me shalt thou come to harm! and this was sung every Sunday morning after the hoisting of the flag. But somehow neither the words nor the tune ever seemed to the Herds to come up to Beasts of Empire. Post a comment in response: |
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