Chapter Two: Seeds of Rebellion
The barn flickered with lamplight, the bitter tang of beer mingling with the cloying sweetness of honey. The animals, swaying drunkenly, had just finished belting out The Song of Animal Farm, their fervor so intense it seemed the whole of Honey Farm quaked with their stomping hooves. From the platform, Snowball’s gaze burned fiercely, his voice finally booming forth, resonant and piercing every shadowed corner of the barn. Deep and magnetic, it rumbled as if from the earth itself, commanding awe: “Comrades, the future of Honey Farm belongs to us! Tonight, with the sweetness of honey and the fire of beer, we’ll rouse the fighting spirit in every animal! The end of human rule is nigh—Animalism’s dawn is breaking!”
The animals’ eyes brimmed with confusion. Snowball realized his words were too lofty for these simple-minded creatures to grasp. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, his tone laced with mockery and authority: “Want to know who I am? Fine, I’ll tell you! I am Snowball, the pig who rolled in from England’s Manor Farm! Or perhaps I’m a specter, drifting from the western wilds! Yes, I’m also Mark, for I’ve borrowed this dullard pig’s body!” A faint smirk curled Snowball’s lips, as if he were reveling in the absurdity of this masquerade.
The animals blinked in a daze, beer froth seemingly bubbling from their bellies to their brains, leaving them lost in a fog. Snowball, specter, Mark—these triple identities swirled like a mist, baffling them. Chickens, ducks, and geese clucked and honked in a flurry of chatter; Old Ox chewed straw in silence, his eyes glinting with wary caution; Head Sheep, fumbling its beard, muttered foolishly, “Is this guy a pig or a ghost?”
Ignoring the whispers below, Snowball pressed on, his voice soaring: “Comrades! You’ve heard, at least in passing, of Animalism’s creed. Since Manor Farm in England fell to animal rule, countless farms have followed our triumph, reclaiming lands that belong to beasts! Take Northwest Farm, up north—they’ve driven out the humans and now live in bliss, with honey jars overflowing and feed aplenty!”
His words set the barn ablaze with excitement. Old Horse lifted his head, a long-dormant spark of hope kindling in his eyes, his heavy hooves tapping the ground lightly. Gray Donkey, shedding its usual aloofness, gave Old Horse a meaningful nod, as if to say, “That sounds promising.” The chickens, ducks, and geese, inflamed by the beer, flapped their wings frantically, as if itching to soar toward Animalism’s free skies.
At that moment, a dark shadow flitted past the barn window, accompanied by a grating caw. The crow Moses, flapping his wings, perched on the sill and screeched, “Breaking news! Napoleon at Manor Farm was kicked dead by a horse! The farm’s back in human hands! Northwest Farm’s animals are suffering, barely hanging on! You fools at Honey Farm, stop this nonsense and go back to bed!”
A deathly hush fell over the barn. The animals exchanged stunned glances, their newfound zeal doused as if by a bucket of ice water. Snowball, seething, roared at Moses, “Comrades! This old, ugly crow spews lies to sow chaos! What’s a crow? A scavenger of rotting flesh! It’s always peddled superstitions, poisoning your spirits to make you abandon the fight and march meekly to the slaughterhouse!”
Before his words faded, Messenger Pigeon led a swarm of doves in a frenzied charge toward Moses. The crow let out two pitiful “Caw, caw!” shrieks, flailing in a pathetic scramble before fleeing into the night. The animals burst into raucous laughter, the barn’s fervor reigniting in an instant.
Snowball seized the moment, his rhetoric soaring, his tone growing ever more fervent: “Comrades! Our lives are short and wretched! The feed we get barely keeps us alive, yet we toil under the lash of the whip! Once our strength is drained, we’re hauled to the slaughterhouse, stripped of even a shred of dignity! Not one animal enjoys a peaceful old age; not one knows the taste of happiness! You’ve been enslaved so long, you’ve mistaken pain for normalcy, torment for joy!”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over every animal, his voice turning icy: “And all the value we create is stolen by them! They lounge on soft beds, sipping whiskey, squandering our blood and sweat! How refined, how comfortable their lives are! Comrades, tell me—who are these creatures?”
“Our exploiting enemies!” Head Sheep slurred, brandishing a clump of straw, mimicking a human’s posture and crooning a shepherdess’s ballad in a grotesque parody, adding with a chuckle, “But her whip’s pretty light, almost gentle. I kinda like it. Heh.”
The animals roared with laughter, but Old Ox, ever stoic, didn’t crack a smile. His face remained grim as he rumbled, “If we can truly escape the whip’s drudgery, I’m for the fight.” A rare gleam of determination flashed in its eyes.
“Exactly, Old Ox—you’ve hit the mark!” Snowball thrust a hoof skyward. “If we unite, fueled by hatred, and rise to fight, we can topple human tyranny in a single night, becoming rich and free! Honey jars will overflow our barns, beer will stream at our hooves! Rise, despise humans! Rise, battle man and heaven alike!”
Gray Donkey, three parts drunk, mimicked Messenger Pigeon’s tone, braying, “Comrades! Spread Animalism!” It wobbled atop a beer barrel, only to knock it over, nearly tumbling hooves-up, sparking another wave of raucous laughter from the crowd.
Seeing the mood reach its peak, Snowball’s tone shifted, sharp and ruthless: “Perhaps I’ve said too much for you to hold. Let me sum it up: Hate humans, defy humans, destroy humans! Let animals rule and reign over this world!”
The animals bellowed in unison, “Destroy humans! Animals rule!” The barn’s uproar had scarcely begun when Messenger Pigeon hushed them with a sharp “Shh!”—they all knew not to rouse the humans.
Head Sheep, swaying drunkenly, blurted, “Four legs good, two legs bad!” The slogan struck like a spark, igniting the fury of the chickens, ducks, and geese. They clucked and honked in outrage, wings flapping wildly, shrieking, “What’s that about four legs? We’ve only got two—are we less than you?”
Head Sheep, realizing its blunder, shrank back awkwardly, itching to flee but loath to abandon the untasted honey, dithering in place.
Old Horse stamped a heavy hoof, murmuring, “Mr. Stone has guns, guards, and Honey Town’s keepers backing him. This rebellion sounds dicey. Besides, I’m on good terms with Mr. Stone—I don’t know if I can bring myself to strike him.”
With that, he turned toward the barn door. Gray Donkey trailed silently, its usually keen eyes now clouded with resignation. Head Sheep, suddenly recalling Mr. Stone’s kindness, wavered too, leading some of its flock toward the exit. The scene dissolved into chaos.
Toad Pig, sensing the tide turning, acted fast, hoisting a battered pocket watch and shouting, “Comrades! Ten more minutes, and we’ll feast on honey!” Head Sheep, bleary-eyed, leaned in, then burst into laughter. “That’s no watch—it’s a compass! Who’re you fooling?” The animals roared with mirth.
Toad Pig raised a honey jar next, and the animals, licking their lips, began to waver. Just then, the barn door creaked open with a groan. Messenger Pigeon strutted in, flanked by a pack of menacing stranger dogs, their eyes cold, their teeth glinting with menace, blocking the exit with an air of deadly intent.
The lead dog grinned, baring sharp fangs, and announced, “I’m Gray Wolf, from Northwest Farm, fighting for Animalism!”
Messenger Pigeon chimed in smugly, “These are elite warriors, trained in Wolf Warrior tactics, each bearing the Wolf Warrior title. They can control every animal on this farm—and even defy humans!”
The animals poised to leave recoiled several steps, struck silent. A Tuxedo Cat sauntered forward with measured steps, its tail arched tensely, betraying unease. It leaped onto a stool, standing on two legs to project authority, and drawled, “Cats and dogs are humans’ closest allies! My big dog brother is loyal to our master, sworn to protect him. Where do you vicious curs come from, and why turn against humans?”
Before it finished, a curious duck craned its neck, inching closer to inspect the Wolf Warriors. Without warning, a Wolf Warrior lunged, clamping its jaws around the duck’s neck, poised to snap it. The duck thrashed, its body twisting, and the chickens, ducks, and geese exploded in a cacophony, squawking furiously at the Wolf Warrior.
Snowball barked, “Release it! A lesson’s enough—don’t sow discord on the eve of revolution!”
The Wolf Warrior loosened its grip, and the duck collapsed, gasping. Toad Pig warned, “Don’t stick your neck out, or next time it’ll snap!” The animals, terrified into silence, barely daring to breathe.
Snowball motioned for them to settle, his voice steady and laced with allure: “Comrades! We’re not just fighting—we’re launching a revolution!”
Head Sheep, half-dazed, mumbled, “What’s a revolution?”
Snowball smirked. “A fine question! Revolution is rebellion! Rebellion is theft! We’ll seize Mr. Stone’s riches with force—honey, jam, whiskey, top-shelf Maotai, all ours! These treasures will be split equally among us animals, to savor slowly! Comrades, did you know? Yesterday, Mr. Stone hauled in a cartload of delicacies—honey, ketchup, jam, and the finest Maotai! Enough to last your fleeting lives! Who among you has tasted Maotai? Eaten jam? I’ve seen Head Sheep gobble up Mr. Stone’s discarded napkins! If our revolution triumphs, who’ll need to chew filthy paper?”
His words hit like a shot of adrenaline. Many animals, previously set on leaving, now gleamed with greed, clamoring to join this “violent feast.” Head Sheep licked its lips, its mind swimming with visions of honey and liquor.
Toad Pig’s lineage had dwindled to three: the eldest, with a massive head, was dubbed Xi Gua; the other two, Ku Gua Pig and Di Gua Pig, were brash, half-grown youths. Xi Gua, aware of his dim wits but eager to prove himself, snatched the honey jar from Toad Pig and swaggered before Head Sheep, posturing grandly: “What, you don’t want a revolution? Don’t want to guzzle honey?”
Head Sheep opened its mouth to reply, but then Xi Gua reared up on two legs, striving for an air of superiority. His clumsy attempt tilted the jar, and sticky honey dribbled out. Head Sheep lunged to catch it, snagging little in its mouth while most splattered its head and body. The other animals, seeing this, swarmed forward—some lapped honey from the floor, others licked Head Sheep’s mouth and Head.
Gray Donkey stretched its neck, snatching the jar from Xi Gua’s hooves, chugged a hefty gulp, and tossed it to the chickens, ducks, and geese on the fringes. They pecked furiously at the jar, only to be shoved aside by four-legged beasts, squawking and clucking in indignant fury.
Xi Gua, realizing his blunder, stood frozen, drawing a torrent of curses from Ku Gua Pig and Di Gua Pig. The scene erupted into chaos, yet buzzed with raucous energy. Xi Gua, desperate to redeem his folly, struggled to stand on two legs again. His wobbly steps earned cheers from the poultry. Emboldened, he aped a human’s stride, only to slip and crash hooves-up, sparking peals of mockery. The chickens, ducks, and geese mimicked his fall, rolling for show, sending the barn into gales of laughter.
Xi Gua rose once more, this time not only pacing a few laps but hoisting a two-hundred-pound sack of grain, trudging ten rounds before collapsing, panting. The animals gaped, their applause thundering.
Tuxedo Cat, unimpressed, gave a disdainful humph. It rose smoothly on two legs, steps steady, then spun a few circles before pirouetting on tiptoes in a ballet dance, stealing the spotlight with waves of cheers.
Tuxedo Cat tilted its head high. “What’s so special about walking on two legs? I mastered it ages ago! My master often has me stand for treats, and now I walk steadier than humans. You could all learn!”
The four-legged animals, unconvinced, tried rearing up, only to topple in a bruised heap. Big White Rabbit managed a few wobbly hops, but even those teetered precariously.
Amid the applause, Tuxedo Cat turned to Snowball. “This Animalism revolution—does it mean driving out Honey Town’s people? I don’t want to chase humans away. Being pampered by my master is bliss—I can’t live without him!”
A glint of cunning flashed in Snowball’s eyes, but he spoke gently: “Fear not, Tuxedo Cat, we won’t rob you of your pampering. Think of the keepers and workers—they’re wretched souls exploited by Mr. Stone! They swig cheap beer, never tasting whiskey, let alone Maotai. They’re crushed by debt, living worse than pigs or dogs, slaving like oxen and horses. Our revolution will free not just animals but these downtrodden humans too! We’ll coexist in peace, sharing honey and fine liquor!”
At this, Tuxedo Cat mewed gleefully, clapping its paws, and the animals erupted in fervent applause. Snowball’s ploy instantly won over the wavering crowd.
The chickens, ducks, and geese, less enthralled by honey, were smitten with the idea of animal rule, bombarding Snowball with questions he struggled to answer. Old Duck flapped its wings, declaring, “It all boils down to one thing: we fowl dream of flying!”
A goose, coyly, added, “I’ve no grand wishes—just to become a swan!”
A rooster, blushing, piped up, “I dream of being a phoenix!”
A hen nudged the rooster aside. “If that’s too much, a peacock will do.”
Snowball said, “No problem, no problem. Without dreams, there is no struggle. This is the lofty ideal! You all knew how to fly, but humans bound you and prevented you from flying. Their goal is to eat you. As long as you get rid of humans, you can fly, just like a golden phoenix flying out of a chicken coop. You can fly however you want. The whole sky belongs to you.”
The fowl gasped, flapping their wings, and the barn exploded with shrieks and applause.
Head Sheep, stroking its goatee, mused, “Keeping the cat’s master and some weak humans around seems doable, but these fowl flying? That’s impossible.” Many four-legged animals nodded, chiming in, “No phoenix ever flew from a henhouse!”
Snowball’s tone turned sinister. “Comrades! I am a spirit, wandered from the western wilds! Nothing impossible stays so!” As he spoke, his head twisted grotesquely, morphing into a monstrous Satan-like sheep’s skull, eyes blazing red, fangs gleaming. The animals froze, terror-stricken; the fowl seemed to lose their souls to the sky. The sheep gawked, nearly collapsing. In a blink, the fiendish visage vanished, and Snowball reverted to Mark’s form, as if it were all a mirage.
The animals, hearts pounding, doubted their eyes but dared not question, hoping it was merely a trick to spare them nightmares. That fleeting horror left them awestruck and terrified of Snowball, cloaked in enigma, stirring a perverse loyalty. The fowl’s glimmer of hope swiftly eclipsed their fear—with a shape-shifting Snowball, free flight no longer seemed a fantasy!
Meanwhile, the farm’s guard dog was lured by the Wolf Warriors for “reeducation,” tempted to join the revolt. Yet its heart wrestled—loyalty to Mr. Stone was its duty as a faithful hound; it refused to betray or join the filth. Powerless against the Wolf Warriors’ threats, it could only pace outside the farm, lifting its head to unleash a plaintive “Woo—woo—” wail, helpless and forlorn.
As the night deepened, the animals dispersed, each nursing tangled thoughts. The haze of beer and honey lingered, but Snowball’s oratory had sown the seeds of revolution in their hearts, their pulses racing for the new order of survival on the horizon.
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