Kill the Farm Boy

by Kevin Hearne

  The sow huffed a laugh. “Nobody. All pigs can talk. We’re one of the five most intelligent animal species in the world. And that means we’re smart enough not to let the humans know our little secret. Unlike you, who almost blew it out there.”

  As she snorted around in her trough, Gustave struggled with this concept. “So let me get this straight. You’re smart. You can talk. Your entire species can. But you’re all content to sit in this pen or that, wallowing in your own filth, and wait for the day they come for you with an axe?”

  The sow swallowed something and turned to face him. He was startled by the intelligence in her eyes—and the anger.

  “What are we going to do, then? Take over the world? Do I look like I can heft a sword or load a boulder into a catapult? This way, they do all the work and we live lives of leisure. I like to think of them as a team of really incompetent butlers.”

  “But you get that they’re going to kill you and eat you one day, right?”

  The sow shrugged massive shoulders that would one day be slow roasted and pulled apart into delicious sandwiches, served with a side of slaw. “Us and the cows and the sheep and the goats. The ducks and the geese and the chickens, too. That’s what usually happens.”

  “And you’re not even going to run away or fight back?”

  She loomed over him now, the bristles standing out around her head. “Oh, sure, I’m quite handy in a sprint. I run marathons in my spare time. Didn’t you see the ‘26.2’ tattooed on my arse? Don’t be foolish. Things are what they are. They have thumbs and weapons, and we don’t. Every pig knows from suckling that one day we’ll be nothing more than an invigorated ham jam on some pompous lordling’s artisanal crackers.”

  Gustave stammered for a moment before blurting, “But that’s insane.”

  The sow laboriously turned her back on him and flopped back into the mud.

  “That’s life in the pigpen, kid. Hedonism and mud packs and birdsong in the mornings until they knock you out and you go to hog heaven.”

  Gustave looked at her broad back, then at the pen of goats, then back to the sow. It was one thing to accept a fence when you had no proper sense of what it meant, but the sow’s suicidal worldview was incomprehensible.

  “What if you just ate a little less, got some exercise, built up your muscles, and masterminded your own escape?”

  “Too much work.”

  At that moment, Gustave realized that intelligence was only one part of the equation and the rest was predicated on rebellion, hard work, and tenacity. He also realized that no matter how intelligent the pig claimed to be, she was an utter moron.

  “What’s on the other side of your pen?” he asked.

  “Chickens. Then a milch cow. Then a magical boot. Then sheep.”

  “Wait. A magical boot?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “What’s it do?”

  The sow leaned her head back to look at him, her ears flopping over. “How should I know? I can’t get over there.”

  “Then how do you know it’s magical?”

  “Well, it’s got a golden, sparkly sort of aura around it.”

  “Would you mind if I wandered over there to check it out?”

  The sow flopped back down on her side and closed her eyes.

  “I rather hope you will. Get lost and take your judgment with you.”

  Gustave was more than glad to squeeze into the next pen. He did not say goodbye. He had decided that he did not like pigs. This realization was cemented when he heard her muttering, “I thought regular goats were bad, but jeez. What a jerk.”

  None of the chickens sought conversation, and neither did the milch cow. Only when he was two fences over did he turn around and shout, “You’re a prisoner of your own choices!” at the pig.

  “And for all your self-righteous blather, your gamy flesh will still be slurped up in a broth of carrots and potatoes someday!”

  “Moo,” the cow lowed.

  “Right?” Gustave said. “She was about as pleasant as a peck of hot chili peppers setting my arse on fire on the way out. I don’t recommend hot chili peppers, by the way. Just a friendly grazing tip.” The cow appeared more interested in chewing her cud than in anything he had to say, however, so he turned his attention to the next pen.

  The sow had not lied to him about this, at least. There sat a perfectly normal stump, and on that stump sat a perfectly abnormal boot. It was as if a sunbeam had pierced the night to shine like a spotlight, and little glints of gold gently floated through the glow as if they’d just escaped the Morningwood and left a magical stain behind. The boot itself was a cobbler’s masterpiece to a goat’s eyes: old seasoned leather, cracked and greasy with age, the tongue poking out like a welcome mat and the laces delectably slurpable.

  “What’s the magic boot do?” he yelled into the night.

  “If it makes you shut up, that’s magic enough for me!”

  He was really coming to hate that pig.

  Gingerly, he nudged the boot with his nose, and nothing happened.

  More aggressively, he butted the boot with his horns, and it toppled off the stump, taking the beam of golden light with it. Even lying on its side, a ragged sock half slithering out, it looked like Gustave’s fondest daydream. With a frisson of joy, he gave it a lick, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  “This is it,” he whispered to the night. “The Boot, capital B. The paragon of boots, peerless in Pell. Everything I ever wanted in a piece of footwear. Aged to perfection, slick with wear, redolent of foot sweat.” He nibbled a lace, bit off the tip, and swallowed it, moaning with pleasure.

  “Do you need some privacy?” the pig called.

  “Don’t listen to her,” he murmured to the boot. “She doesn’t understand what we have. It’s just you and me, baby.”

  Bit by delicious bit, he ate the boot. The tongue was a revelation, the laces were dreamy, and the actual leather was so good that he had to force himself to slow down and taste each bite. Time seemed to stop as Gustave consumed the boot of his dreams. As he chewed the last chunk of sole, the sunbeam gently faded away, and then he was just another goat in the darkness. The night seemed still all of a sudden, the fighting over and the soldiers gone, or at least drinking more quietly in the inn. The normal goats bleated, the pig muttered about predestination, the cow mooed, and Gustave hovered for once on the edge of fullness. For at least a solid minute, he didn’t think about eating anything. And that was a sort of magic in itself.

  As he swallowed the very last bite, he thought, “I wish I was anything but a goat. Except a pig. Neither of those things, please.”

  Gulp.

  The boot was gone. The stump was just a stump. The magic had disappeared.

  But something rumbled in his tummy, and he looked down to find a faint golden glow suffusing his midsection.

  “What’s this all aboot?” he asked, giggling a little.

  And then the magic glow winked out, and he was still a goat.

  But at least he wasn’t a pig.

  “I am so done with animals,” he said. Which, he realized, meant he was going to be pretty lonely from now on.

  When Staph had been talking to Worstley, she’d said something about him being cursed as much as blessed by this aura of the Chosen One. Probably because of the “one” part. There was no one else who could understand how isolated he felt, for he was not truly part of the herd anymore, nor was he accepted as an equal among the bipeds.

  Squeezing through the next fence, Gustave emerged in a clearing beyond the inn. He’d managed to clamber over or through all the animal pens, and dawn was just beginning to break. It had been a long night, and he was feeling the effects of flight, fight, intellectual debate, painful epiphany, and unrepentant gluttony. He realized that in all his years on Worstley’s farm, he’d never noticed a sunrise, nev
er paid attention to the gentle aroma of blood and metal bedazzled with dew. His life had once been as simple as that of the goats still huddled in their pen, bleating stupidly and pooping on one another’s hooves. It was, he thought, quite a different world outside the fence.

  The sun rose pink in the east, and a rooster crowed, breaking the tender silence of the sleepy world.

  “Or a rooster,” Gustave said to his belly. “I don’t want to be a rooster, either. Everybody hates a rooster.”

  Leaping onto the stump that the inn used for chopping firewood, he surveyed the yard for trouble. No soldiers could be seen, and the only humans still able to exert themselves were looting the bodies of their less exertable colleagues. There was no sign of Gustave’s party, but then again, they’d be inside the inn, recovering their strength with food, as he had. He leapt down from the stump and stopped to sip cool water from a trough outside the pens. It tasted of insouciance and freedom, and he savored it before he trotted toward the front door, ever ready for some clumsy lout to threaten him with axes, swords, or threats of future curry. Fortunately, no one attempted to goathandle him, and Gustave clattered into the inn anxious to get the heck back out again, but with company.

  The first thing he saw was Argabella, mainly because she was staring directly at the door, her face showing clearly that he was not what she’d been expecting. Her whiskers and ears drooped.

  “Oh. Gustave.”

  “Glad to see you, too, Argy.”

  “It’s not that I’m disappointed to see you; it’s just that…”

  “You were waiting for someone else.”

  The bunny blushed through her fur. “I’m just glad you’re okay. Did you happen to see Fia outside?”

  Gustave scrambled up onto the bench across from her and nodded at the tall man sitting next to Argabella.

  “Did you ask her brother?”

  Argabella shook her head and frowned. “That’s Konnan. It’s a long story. Although…Poltro…”

  “Let me guess. Outside fighting chickens?”

  “The opposite.”

  “Inside and loving chickens?”

  Tears filled Argabella’s eyes, and she held up a human hand from under the table that looked even to Gustave’s eye rather too bluish and clammy.

  “I don’t know. I found her in the swamp. Already dead. I think she fell off a cliff.”

  “She chickened out, eh?”

  “Gustave!”

  “Well, she did want to eat me,” he huffed indignantly.

  Before Argabella could lecture him—his lecture sense was tingling—something fell from the ceiling with a clatter, slamming onto an empty plate and smashing it to bits. The tall man beside Argabella leapt to his feet, his sword out and held before him menacingly, its tip pointed at the interloper.

  “Is that a giant rat?” Argabella asked, but not like she was disgusted, because clearly, she had no room to talk in the furry and weird area.

  “It’s a possum,” Gustave said.

  “I think you mean an opossum,” the man said from behind his sword.

  The creature opened its beady eyes and muttered, “Don’t even start with that pedantic tripe after the night I’ve had. Possumsplaining a possum.”

  Gustave sighed and raised an eyebrow. “What is it about this dwarf joint? Everything can talk. Do they make magic kibble? What next—the spoons are going to start complaining about dental hygiene?”

  Rising to her legs, the possum stretched and yawned, showing pointy teeth and a long pink tongue. “No, but they do make a pretty poor roof, at least if one wishes to sleep past breakfast. Darling, do you not recognize me? It is I, Grinda the Sand Witch.” As if to press the point, she waved a long pink tail in which was clutched Grinda’s glass wand, and her sparkly crab ring was looped around the tip.

  “Oh, Grinda!” Argabella said, hopping up like she wanted to hug the witch but fairly certain it would be awkward. She settled for waving, which was no less awkward but felt much safer, considering the possum’s teeth and temper. “I’m so glad to see you. Have you seen Fia?”

  Grinda gestured with a pink paw at the exit. “She fought valiantly through the door last night. That dratted Staph got the better of Mathilde, sadly, and turned her back into a marmoset.”

  “And she got you, too?”

  The possum hissed, and Argabella drew back. “No, she did not overpower me, thank you very much. I chose this form to escape her, and now I’ve…forgotten how to change back. But I still have my wand and ring. I merely need to speak to another wizard or witch, or perhaps get my paws on some grimoires. But never fear: I am in my right mind and still capable of my previous powers.” She licked her chops. “And I could use some cat food. Or garbage, perhaps. But fancy garbage.”

  “I like you in this form,” Gustave said. “We have a lot in common.”

  Grinda was about to say something nasty to him, according to the way her adorable pink nose wrinkled up, but then she stopped and canted her head. “You. Goat. There’s something different about you. Have you been poking your nose into the foul demesne of the magical arts?”

  Gustave felt his shoulders go up as he ejected a volley of shame pellets onto the newly cleaned floor. “I ate a boot,” he admitted.

  “And?”

  “And it was sort of glowing in a magical kind of way, if you know what I mean.”

  The possum puffed up, seeming nearly twice her previous size. “HAVE YOU LEARNED nothing FROM THIS JOURNEY? Magic is powerful. You can’t just go around eating everything that sparkles!”

  Gustave cleared his throat and stepped back on the bench. “I’m a goat. That’s what I do.”

  It occurred to him, briefly and uncomfortably, that the pig had said something quite similar to him earlier and that he was gently dipping a trotter into the realm of hypocrisy. He was now a thinking creature, but he hadn’t even considered not eating the boot. Was that because he was a prisoner of his animalistic nature, or was he, as a magical being, merely drawn to magic? Was eating that boot part of his destiny? Would something horrible have happened if he hadn’t eaten the boot? Which part of his nature was goat, and which part was becoming all too human? Speaking of human nature: If Poltro was dead, why was her body just sitting on the bench while people ate breakfast? Weren’t humans pretty creeped out by death in general? Why would they sit companionably next to a corpse, especially while eating other dead animals with butter, which was itself made from fermented animal milk? Conscious thought was really starting to get his goat.

  And then his attention was drawn to the door, which had just slammed open and bounced off the wall.

  There, mighty thews and all, was Fia.

  Fia returned the huge grin Argabella flashed at her when she walked through the door of the Braided Beard. Her honey bunny was alive! And so was everyone else—whoops! Maybe not Poltro. She didn’t look well. And, uh, that one guy, her countryman she’d seen briefly before the fighting broke out, was hovering awfully close to Argabella. She didn’t see Grinda anywhere, nor Mathilde the marmoset. There was, however, a possum on the table with Grinda’s glass wand wrapped up in its tail and a sparkly crab winking on the tip of it, and Gustave the goat had managed to avoid being turned into curry somehow. The jar of pickled herring they’d bought hadn’t survived the evening, though. Sad fish eyes stared unblinking among the shattered remnants of a jar sitting in a puddle of brine and onions that everyone was trying to ignore.

  The bodies and the bloodstains from the fight had been cleaned up, however, and you’d never know that anything amiss had happened except that everyone looked uncommonly dirty for the Braided Beard. Fia’s entrance was apparently too much for the proprietor, Yåløndå Køpkümp, who watched her clomp in all muddy and shouted for everyone’s attention.

  “All right! We’re mostly back to normal, and we do have standing rules for being se
rved here. We let that slide a little bit while we were disposing of corpses, but it’s time to reassert our civilization. Everybody to the baths, now!”

  Fia had no problem with that. Argabella practically leapt out of her seat, leaving Poltro there with the easterner and the animals, and the two of them ducked into the bathhouse before the rest could catch up. They’d have time to talk later.

  Argabella hugged her tightly, mud and all, then delicately picked out a piece of bark that had somehow become lodged in her cleavage.

  “What’s this?” her bunny asked.

  “That’s a piece of Pop.”

  Argabella regarded the bark for a moment before turning limpid, worried eyes back to Fia. “As in…your father?”

  “No, as in a poplar tree that tried to eat me. It’s been quite a night. For both of us, I imagine. We have catching up to do.”

  “Yes! Lots of catching up.”

  They caught up in copper tubs placed side by side, where Fia learned about the tragic demise of Poltro. Her fate and Toby’s, at least, did not weigh on her conscience, though Worstley’s still did and she remained determined to make that right if she could.

  Argabella also informed her that the man who’d been sitting so close to her at the table was named Konnan, a prince who found hirsute women attractive and had not been subtle in broadcasting his desire for Argabella.

  “What a duck dork,” Fia said.

  Argabella giggled and then gasped, remembering something. “Also—I don’t know if it’s the same one you knew—he said he had a friend named Steve.”

  Fia gripped the sides of the bathtub and pressed her lips together over a scream of frustration. When she could manage, she said through gritted teeth, “It has to be. Steve was well connected with princes and such.”

  “What are we going to do about Konnan?”

  “Nothing. We’re just going to leave. And not tell him my name. The last thing I need is for Steve to hear that I’m hanging around Songlen these days. He has people in town. This Konnan may well be one of them.”

  “Does Steve want you dead or something?”