Chapter One: The Exile’s Flight
The animals of Manor Farm in England, having overthrown human rule and taken charge, ushered in seismic changes, basking in a fleeting illusion of joy. Snowball, brimming with dreams, had no time to fulfill them before Napoleon’s pack of vicious dogs drove him from the farm, casting him out as a pariah.
Once in power, Napoleon issued absurd decrees, blaming every farm mishap on Snowball, accusing him of sneaking back at night to sow chaos. In truth, Snowball, fleeing Manor Farm in fear of Napoleon’s enforcers, never dared return, embarking on a life of wandering. He first slipped into nearby Foxwood Farm, hiding silently, biding his time to spark Animalism’s flame.
Before long, Foxwood’s owner, Pilkington, sensed this new English white pig was covertly inciting rebellion. After investigation, he confirmed it was Snowball, the one who’d ousted Mr. Jones. With a cold smirk, Pilkington resolved to send Snowball to the slaughterhouse before he could ignite an uprising, ensuring the threat was extinguished.
Fortunately, Snowball received a secret warning from Messenger Pigeon about the plot. Originally a crow at Manor Farm, To better spread animalism. Snowball had enlisted a wizard to transform it into a peace-loving dove, lending credence to the cause. Grateful, Messenger Pigeon shadowed Snowball, always aiding in critical moments.
Under its cover, Snowball fled overnight to Pinchfield Farm, posing as a dim-witted pig to win the trust of its owner, Frederick. But his respite was brief. Frederick, clutching a wanted poster, quickly identified the white pig and sent men to seize him.
Besieged by whips and clubs, Snowball fought fiercely to break free, but a bullet found its mark. He collapsed in a pool of blood, dead on the spot. The farm owner’s laughter echoed in the wind, mocking the once-ambitious pig’s downfall.
Snowball’s spirit drifted from his lifeless body, aimless, wandering the wilds. One day, he chanced upon an old crow. Peering closely, Snowball exclaimed, “Aren’t you Moses, the Manor Farm crow who claimed to commune with the spirit world?”
Moses ruffled his glossy black feathers, sighing, “Indeed, the same old, weathered crow. My, it’s been ages! Your regal vigor back then—now a ghost? How fickle fate is!”
Snowball, subdued, said, “Seeing you recalls your tales of the animals’ haven—that paradise, Honey Mountain, where every day’s a Sunday, clover grows year-round, and hedges bear sugar cubes and linseed cakes. I’m adrift, nowhere to go. Can you take me there?”
Moses cast a chilly glance, “No. Animalism scorns Honey Mountain as superstition. You mocked it in life, denying immortal souls and the spirit realm. Now you believe, too late! Only pure souls true to animal nature enter there. You, a schemer who threw the farm into chaos, have no claim!” With that, Moses flapped, ready to soar.
Snowball cried out, “Wait, please! I’m starving, a lost spirit—help me find refuge! Back when you peddled spirit-world tales at Manor Farm, we found you a nuisance and had a wizard turn you from dove to crow. I was wrong—I’m sorry!”
Moses sighed deeply, “Finally, a decent word from you—rare. Fine, you can’t reach Honey Mountain’s paradise, but far in the East lies a mortal Honey Mountain. At its base is Honey Town, and by the river, Honey Farm, echoing the spirit realm’s bounty. For a bodiless ghost like you, though, it’s no foothold.”
A spark of hope flickered in Snowball, and he drifted eastward in a haze. Along the way, he spotted a boar named Mark, sprawled on a rickety pickup truck, lost in dreams. Inspiration struck. Snowball morphed into a seductive sow, slipping into Mark’s dream, captivating him utterly.
Mark fell hard, chasing this “beauty” like Pig Bajie smitten with a lady, heart aflutter. Snowball exploited his desire, possessing him effortlessly. Shrouded in mist, Mark was whisked to Honey Farm beneath Honey Mountain, sold to its owner, Mr. Stone.
Arriving at Honey Farm, Snowball’s spirit surged with exhilaration, scarcely believing he had reached the earthly echo of that fabled paradise. Though far from a celestial wonder, the land teemed with diverse creatures and rich, fertile soil. Mark, meanwhile, was thrilled with his new home, where feed abounded like a mortal Eden. He soon fell for a black sow in the pigpen, though privately he disdained her coarseness. Yet the lingering pull of that dream-fueled desire held him captive, irresistible.
Before long, the black sow birthed a litter of piglets, most of which Mr. Stone sold off. Only one frail, sickly piglet was returned, named Toad Pig—not for toad-like patches of black fur, but for its scrawny, listless frame, utterly unremarkable. Mark doted on his sole offspring, nursing it with care until Toad Pig grew robust and strong.
Snowball’s spirit, lurking within Mark, watched and schemed. Could he harness Mark and Toad Pig to rekindle Animalism’s flame on this farm? Yet dark clouds gathered faintly above, as if heralding an approaching storm.
One day, Snowball glimpsed a familiar figure loitering by the pigpen, muttering about finding “Snowball the pig.” Peering closer, he recognized Mr. Jones, Manor Farm’s former master! Stifling a chuckle, Snowball morphed into a chilling breeze, swirling around Jones, taunting, “Catch me, fool!” Jones, oblivious, scanned the pen with vacant eyes. Snowball gloated inwardly: as Mark’s possessing spirit, he was invisible to these dull humans—a splendid trick!
His smugness was short-lived. A dire threat loomed: Mark, gorged on Honey Farm’s plentiful feed, had ballooned into a waddling orb, the slaughterhouse’s blade drawing near. Unable to directly control Mark’s mind, Snowball slipped into his dreams as the alluring sow, whispering, “Mark, heed me—obesity means the slaughterhouse noose! Diet to save your hide!”
Mark awoke, a faint Animalism spark flickering in his mind, dimly grasping that only animal rule could spare him the butcher’s knife and secure free feasts. He shed his gluttonous lethargy, attempting to slim down. But the feed’s allure overwhelmed him, his efforts feeble, his girth unchanged.
One day, a dove alighted on Mark’s back, murmuring, “Snowball, how’s Honey Farm treating you?”
Mark froze, baffled, “Snowball? I’m Mark! Though, oddly, I dream of a sow named Snowball, a beauty haunting my dreams. Who is she?”
The dove’s tone was knowing, “She’s the spirit possessing you.”
Mark shuddered, squealing, “A possessing spirit? That’s terrifying! I want it gone!”
The dove smirked, “You brought it on yourself. Who’s to blame?”
Mark, flustered, stammered, “When did I invite a ghost?”
Too impatient to explain, the dove dropped grim news: “Listen—tomorrow, pigs go to the slaughterhouse. Your name’s been on the list for days.”
Struck as if by lightning, Mark spun frantically in the pen, his bulk rattling the fence with desperate squeaks.
Snowball’s spirit, simmering with urgency, hissed to Messenger Pigeon, “This dim-witted Mark’s doomed! We must lull his soul to eternal sleep so I can fully command this body and advance our cause!”
Messenger Pigeon understood what was going on and immediately flew to a farm in the northwest to find a mysterious wizard. That night, the wizard cast a spell and Mark suddenly staggered like a drunk, cried out “Ah–“, and fell headfirst into a deep sleep. In his sleep, his lips smacked a few times, and the sound he uttered became Snowball’s: “Hey, Messenger Pigeon, I’m Snowball.”
Messenger Pigeon flapped his wings and shouted happily: “Master, you’ve finally come back to life!”
Snowball’s tone was icy. “Animalism hasn’t swept the globe. I won’t rest until it does!”
Messenger Pigeon chirped, “Master, good news! Northwest Farm’s animals, following Manor Farm’s triumph, ousted their owner. Animalism’s taken root there!”
Snowball’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent! How’d they do it?”
Messenger Pigeon preened, “Animalism’s creed, paired with violent revolution—that’s the recipe!”
Snowball mused, “Belief and violence alone won’t cut it. You need loyal, anti-human dogs to seal victory. Manor Farm’s lesson is burned in my memory.”
Messenger Pigeon chuckled slyly, “Don’t worry, Master, I’ve planned ahead! Mr. Stone’s guard dog, a fierce four-eyed beast, wouldn’t budge, but I’ve lured its pups to Northwest Farm for violent training. They’re ready to serve us!”
Snowball exulted, “Perfect! Call them back now. Tonight, we’ll hold a grand animal assembly, rallying all Honey Farm’s forces to drive out Mr. Stone!”
At Snowball’s urging, Messenger Pigeon raced about, tirelessly coaxing the leaders of various animals to join the secret meeting. But Honey Farm’s animals were largely skeptical of Animalism, dismissing Messenger Pigeon’s invitations. Some scoffed, seeing it as another empty promise. Snowball sneered inwardly, These shortsighted fools need a taste of sweetness to fight for the cause!
He instructed Messenger Pigeon to soar to Honey Mountain’s peak, offering flowers to the queen bee for a jar of glistening, precious honey. Messenger Pigeon first targeted the stubborn Head Sheep, stealthily smearing honey on its lips. Head Sheep licked, eyes sparkling, savoring an unprecedented sweetness, bleating “Baa, baa!” in delight, as if the whole farm heard its joy.
Messenger Pigeon repeated the trick, enticing other leaders—Old Ox, Old Horse, Rooster, Old Duck, even the finicky Big White Rabbit—with the treat. Each marveled, drooling, craving more of this divine delicacy. Seizing the moment, Messenger Pigeon promised that tonight’s gathering would offer all animals this earthly delight, plus a surprise: beer.
As dusk fell, Mr. Stone’s lights went out, cloaking Honey Farm in silence. While humans slept, animals stirred, converging stealthily on the barn. Old Ox and Milk Cow arrived first, hooves heavy but cautious; Old Horse followed, joined by Gray Donkey, his sharp-witted aide. Though unassuming, Gray Donkey’s cunning in rebellion rivaled any four-legged creature, making him a vital ally for the meeting.
Even Head Sheep, typically against revolt, and the chickens, ducks, geese, and Big White Rabbit, lured by honey, brought their entourages. The poultry selected scrappy members, citing four-legged animals’ bullying of “flightless fowl” as their motive.
Old Duck waddled into the barn, spotting Mark on the platform, and squawked, “This dim-witted Mark pig, now hosting a honeyed rally? Has the farm run out of pigs?”
Old Duck’s outburst drew all eyes to the platform, suspicion rippling as animals murmured. They stared at Mark, unable to believe this lumbering boar could achieve anything grand.
Old Ox spoke slowly, his deep voice cutting through, “Quiet. It’s not Mark—a spirit named Snowball possesses him. I heard it from Messenger Pigeon while hauling beer.”
Head Sheep, stroking its bearded chin, gasped, “Snowball? The one who crafted Animalism with Old Major and drove out Mr. Jones? That pig’s a legend!”
A rooster crowed, “Legend, my feathers! That’s Mark! Look—his kid Toad Pig and a gaggle of grandpiglets are right there!”
Gray Donkey flicked its tail, impatient, “Mark or Snowball, I don’t care—I’m here for that honey jar in his hooves!”
Messenger Pigeon flapped onto the platform, cooing, “No more arguing! The barn’s brimming with beer. Taste this human delight—it’ll blow your minds!”
The animals surged forward. Head Sheep guzzled a mouthful, wincing at the initial bitterness before savoring its depth, exclaiming, “This stuff’s oddly tasty—pure magic!”
Chickens, ducks, and geese pecked at the beer, soon swaying drunkenly, faces flushed, clucking and honking in a raucous din. Big White Rabbit sipped cautiously, then hopped frantically, coughing as if it swallowed a chili, sparking roars of laughter. Gray Donkey chugged boldly, then froze, its face stretching longer than Horse’s, muttering, “I… I think I drank horse piss—pfft!”
The barn erupted in wild laughter. Cows and horses drank heartily, stomping in glee. The animals grew rowdier, lost in a dizzying bliss they’d never known, fostering a grudging respect for Snowball—or rather, the possessed Mark. Some even dared hope he’d lead them to a future brimming with honey jars and flowing beer.
Toad Pig, sloshed, clutched a beer can, warbling an off-key tune. Itching to scratch its back but unable to reach, it rubbed against the wall, its song twisting with each scrape, sounding like a duck’s squawk. The animals howled with laughter, doubled over.
Amid their mockery, Snowball cleared his throat sharply and launched into The Song of Animal Farm. The anthem ignited the barn like a torch, rousing the animals’ fervor. They joined in, voices swelling as one:
Oh, burdened beasts of toil and pain,
Hear the prophecy of a radiant reign!
The day will dawn, the hour is near,
When human tyranny shall disappear,
When slavery and strife shall cease,
The earth shall be our realm of peace!
(Cow) No ring shall pierce the bovine nose,
Moo, moo, moo…
(Horse) No stirrups, saddles to bear our woes,
Snort, snort, snort…
(Sheep) No cruel whip shall lash our hide,
Baa, baa, baa…
The life we crave, abundant, grand,
We’ll share with humans, hand in hand—
Beer, whiskey, jam, and honey sweet,
Let the sun rise west to bless our feat!
Beasts shall revel, united, free,
Seizing all from humanity!
The dream of Animalism shall prevail!
Goose, oh, oh, oh…
Chicken, cluck, cluck…
Duck, quack, quack, quack…
Pigeon, coo, coo, coo…
Honey Farm’s revolution seemed poised to erupt, yet it hung like a farcical wager, its outcome uncertain. The four-eyed dog at the gate sensed a looming crisis, growling and whimpering. Mr. Stone, oblivious, savored his meal as usual. Snowball, observing the farm, smirked in secret.
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