The Great Pig Escape

by Linda Moller

  ‘Sow said that it’s still there, that world, somewhere outside, and it’s beautiful and that every day there is full of surprises. Today is never quite the same as yesterday. Pigs are happy there. Of course there’s food too, food all around them, even under their feet.’

  Lovely. How lovely, Runtling thought. And how useless. We’re to be killed long before we can ever get back there. Oh, how shall I start to tell them?

  He took a long breath.

  ‘Pigs!’ he cried. ‘Pigs! You and me, we may all be gone tomorrow. Last night while I was lying outside the gate, the farm cat came to me. “Don’t try to get in there with those pigs!” she told me. “There’s a cattle truck coming to take them to market, to be sold for food. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps the day after.” So that’s all we are, food. That’s all we’re good for.’

  There was a stunned silence. The pigs stared at him, fear in their eyes.

  ‘But,’ continued Runtling, ‘I couldn’t run away just when I’d found you. I had to warn you. We’ve got to get out of here, and we haven’t got long. The cat is on our side. I gave her a bit of help, that’s why. And she doesn’t like the Taggertys. They don’t feed her, but they let her into the house and she hears what they say. She gets to know everything – she said she’d tell me when the cattle truck is coming. So what shall we do? Stay and wait for the truck? Never. Not that. We’ll escape!’

  ‘But how, Runtling? How?’ they cried. ‘It’s impossible. There’s no way out of here and nothing could gnaw a hole in concrete.’

  ‘I don’t know how yet. But there’s got to be a way. Let’s work it out together. But first I think we ought to have a leader. So let’s choose a leader – I’ve escaped myself so I know quite a bit about escapes …’

  ‘Well then, I propose that Runtling be leader,’ said Fern. ‘All in favour, grunt.’ And they all grunted loudly.

  Now Runtling knew he was no longer the helpless little pig he had thought himself to be back in his lonely sty. He was quite as big, no, rather bigger than the other pigs. In fact he was quite grown up. Then, too, he’d been in the world outside pigsties. He had had experience. And now he had become a leader. He felt important – even great.

  He rose to his full height and faced them all. They waited for his words.

  ‘To the straw. To the straw, to plan the escape,’ he whispered.’We will lie on the straw in the shed as though sleeping a meal off. In the shed we can’t be seen or heard.’

  ‘Yes, in the shed one can think better. But there’s no need to whisper here, Runtling,’ said Hawthorn. ‘Because men don’t understand our language. They’ve never understood a single grunt you’ve said, have they? Never.’

  The next day the cat slipped through the bars of the pigyard. She had news for Runtling. Suddenly Taggerty lumbered round the corner, and at once the cat behaved as though she were stalking a bird or a mouse. It led her straight to Runtling. There she crouched, staring past him at her imaginary prey.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered. ‘The truck. At eleven o’clock.’

  Runtling pretended to stare at something a small distance away. Taggerty was now close to the pigyard, but he could hear nothing except the loud squeak of the old wheelbarrow he was pushing.

  ‘At eleven o’clock tomorrow then. All right, be here at suppertime when Taggerty brings the food bin. You’ll see something worth watching.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said the cat and pounced. Then as though she had just missed her prey, she rose and stalked away.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Fall of Taggerty

  ON TUESDAY EVENING Taggerty trundled the pigmeal bin across the yard as usual. And in it was the same pale, boring mixture. He bought it in sacks labelled ‘GROWFAST – ALWAYS RELIABLY THE SAME’.

  The pigs knew the sound of the pigbin trundling across the farmyard. And they always squealed and grunted loudly at the prospect of food. It was only half-full tonight. Why waste money on big meals when the pigs were to be sold tomorrow, Taggerty reasoned.

  Tonight, Taggerty saw the pigs waiting near the gate as usual, but in complete silence. The pigs were not looking at the bin. They were glaring at him – at him! And they weren’t moving.

  What’s up? he wondered. It’s so quiet. Why are they all staring at me? What’s got into them?

  He slowed down, uncertain. It’s a bit spooky, he thought.

  Then he reminded himself that they were only animals, and what’s more, his animals, and he pushed the bin up to the gate. He put it down with a louder clank than usual, opened the gate and wheeled the bin in. He turned to close the gate.

  At that moment Runtling gave a short piercing squeal. That was the signal. Thirteen heavy pigs, bunched together, charged the open gateway. Taggerty stood in front of it. He tried to dodge. Too late. The pigs could no more avoid him than he them. He was knocked off his feet. Down he went, hard, his head hitting the concrete yard.

  Through the open gate, across the yard and away up the farm lane, at top speed, streamed the pigs. At the road they turned right, though where that led they had no idea. Runtling was in the lead. They ran in single file, keeping close to the hedgerows and the wayside trees, hidden, or so they hoped.

  But their presence was already known to some. A late blackbird chink-chinked an alarm call. Far down the road a rabbit raised its head and sat up, nose twitching, then bolted across the road for cover. Three young horses in the roadside field grew curious. They ambled down to the hedge. They thought there was some sort of party going on and cantered excitedly along beside the pigs on the other side of the hedge.

  ‘Go away!’ hissed Runtling. ‘Go away.’

  But the young horses went on cantering around, in their silly way, until the pigs were out of sight.

  Close behind Runtling ran Hawthorn. Though Hawthorn could easily have outrun them all, that wasn’t allowed – Runtling was the leader. Then came the rest of the pigs. Right at the end behind Bramble came the Piglings. Only fear kept them from lagging behind.

  ‘They turn you into sausages if they catch you,’ panted one. ‘The cat said so.’

  ‘No, not sausages! It was pies she said. I remember, it was pies. Which is worse, do you think? Sausages or pies?’ They were close to tears.

  Their fear grew as the road narrowed and walls replaced the shelter of the hedgerows. The grass verge had disappeared too. On the soft grass they had run silently but for a muffled thudding of hooves. Now they were running, thirteen of them, on the hard road.

  ‘We’re making an awful noise. Someone will hear us,’ gasped one of the Piglings.

  ‘I know, it’s our hooves. They clatter …’ puffed the other.

  Runtling was aware of it too. ‘People might hear us before they see us, so even if we try to hide … but there’s nowhere on this road to hide, nowhere. What shall we do? Think … think fast.’

  But he found it difficult to think fast and run fast at the same time. Besides, he couldn’t stop thinking of Taggerty. Was he dead? Or was he even now getting up from where he had fallen with such an awful thud? Maybe he was already through the gate and running after them?

  Busy with his fears, Runtling nearly missed seeing that a lane, partly hidden by a clump of trees, led off the road.

  ‘A lane! A lane!’ he shouted over his shoulder and turned down it.

  It was an old lane with a bank on one side that sheltered the pigs from sight. As they trotted along, the bottom of the lane grew wetter and stonier. Here and there brambles arched over it. They stumbled on. The lane seemed to get narrower and the bank higher. Bracken grew tall and curved into a green tunnel for them. Here they felt safe, and dared to stop and rest for a moment.

  A trickle of water usually meandered down the lane. But lately heavy rainfall had turned the trickle into a stream that had eaten its way into the bank, turning it into thick squelching mud. The Piglings, too tired to stand, lay sprawled in the mud.

  It was cool and satisfying. They began to roll in it for pleasure. When they ros
e, their smooth pink backs and legs were a splodgy black.

  ‘Let’s all do that!’ cried Hawthorn, ‘and be splodgy dark. Then we won’t show up so much, we’ll be … what’s the word? Camouflaged!’

  So they all rolled and tumbled in the mud. It was pure delight. Everything else was forgotten until a good deal later when Runtling remembered that he was leader of a great escape. He stood up, black and glistening.

  ‘We must keep going. At night we can’t be seen. Night is our one chance of getting too far away for Taggerty ever to find us. We must trot on and on and on through the night. When daytime comes we’ll lie up somewhere hidden, and sleep!’

  ‘What about eating?’ asked one.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to eat,’ answered Runtling.

  Silence fell. It was a full day since their last meal and their supper lay spilt all over Taggerty’s yard.

  The Piglings looked at each other, alarmed. ‘Nothing to eat. Nothing to eat …’

  CHAPTER 5

  An Evil Spirit

  BACK AT THE FARM Mrs Taggerty was sitting on the sofa with her feet up reading the Oldcastle Weekly News. She was waiting for Taggerty to come back for supper.

  He’s very late tonight, she thought. Probably pottering about in the yard as usual! Tinkering with the tractor, I suppose. The tractor had broken down again.

  But Taggerty still lay where he had fallen. His head hurt when he moved. He tried once more to get up. He rolled over, clutched the pig-netting fence and managed to haul himself onto his feet. But this made him dizzy and he decided to try crawling instead. He crawled through the pigyard gateway and was halfway across the farmyard when he collapsed, feeling sick.

  Mrs Taggerty put down the paper and opened the back door.

  ‘Enough is enough,’ she muttered to herself.

  She shouted loudly, several times. No reply. Supper was almost cold, so out she swept to look for him. He was not in the barn. He was not in the tool shed. In the yard she shouted again. Back came a faint, croaky cry, ‘Help! Help!’

  All he could say when she found him was, ‘My head … oh! my head!’

  Later, covered with a blanket, and lying on the sofa with closed eyes, he spoke again. ‘Did you see the pigs?’

  ‘No, I didn’t look at them, why?’

  ‘They’ve gone. I don’t know where. They charged me. They knocked me down. They did it on purpose. You should have seen them all. Standing stock-still they were, with staring eyes, waiting for the moment. Suddenly they all charged, all at once. I didn’t stand a chance.’

  What a ridiculous story, thought Mrs Taggerty. The fall has knocked him silly. And she rushed off to make him another cup of hot sweet tea.

  ‘Those aren’t ordinary pigs anymore,’ he moaned. ‘Something’s got into them. An evil spirit, or there’s black magic at work. Don’t bring them back here when they’re found. I’m not having them back here. Sell them. Sell them off the road. Sell them at any price!’

  He groaned and closed his eyes again.

  Mrs Taggerty looked into the pigyard herself. Not a pig to be seen, except for the sow in her own sty. So Taggerty’s story must be true. She telephoned the police.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear about it,’ said the policeman. ‘Very worrying for you, I’m sure. But there’s only one of us here evenings, and looking for stray animals is not on my duty list. I’ll report it to the sergeant in the morning though. He may think that twelve stray pigs are a danger to road traffic and that he ought to do something about it.’

  The doctor was called in. He said Taggerty had concussion and must lie in bed very quietly and not think. He’d call again in three days’ time.

  ‘But I’m very worried about those pigs. They must be found,’ said Mrs Taggerty.

  ‘Not to worry, Mrs Taggerty, not to worry. Twelve pigs can’t just disappear,’ said the doctor. ‘Your husband is more important than his pigs. Now, you stay home and look after him. And if that headache is not better tomorrow, telephone me.’

  But Mrs Taggerty did worry: What’s best to do? What’ll I do? … Get it in the papers straight away. That’s what.

  So she telephoned the Oldcastle Weekly News and told them the whole story.

  ‘Really?’ said the Oldcastle Weekly News reporter, ‘This is an amazing story. You say your husband was knocked off his feet by the pigs, and it wasn’t an accident. They actually attacked him?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Mrs Taggerty was most emphatic. ‘They did. And there’s only one explanation for it. There could only be one. An evil spirit. It entered the pigs. It was giving them orders.’

  ‘Ah, like the Gadarene swine – in the Bible?’

  ‘That’s it. Like the Gadarene swine,’ replied Mrs Taggerty excitedly. ‘Now if that sort of thing can happen once, it could happen again, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Well … I suppose it could,’ said the reporter, not believing for a moment that it could. In fact, he found the whole story unlikely … absurd, and was certain most of his readers would too. But what should he say to her?

  ‘Mrs Taggerty … er … I’m afraid it’s just too late now to get a notice about the pigs into this week’s paper. I suggest you put a little advertisement in next week. You could say “Lost or stolen, twelve pigs. Finder rewarded.” Give your telephone number. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must ring off. There’s another call waiting for me. Don’t worry. I feel sure you’ll get your pigs back.’

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NEWS SPREADS

  THE PIGS DID NOT KNOW how far they had come, or whether being hungry was worse than being afraid, or whether being afraid was worse than being hungry.

  ‘There’s nothing to eat,’ Runtling had said. Yet the night air was alive with smells, some of them mouth-watering. They longed to track down these smells and gobble up whatever it was they came from. But there was no time. They trotted, and ran, and trotted the night through. And now the stars were fading and the darkness had become a greyness.

  ‘We’ve got to find a hide-out before daylight. A nice wild patch, not farmland. Keep looking, everyone,’ ordered Runtling.

  ‘Keep looking,’ each pig said to the other.

  But they saw nothing. The countryside was too neat and tidy here, small hedges, big fields, pleasant lanes. It was worrying.

  Then the Piglings sent word up through the line. ‘Would a building do? We’ve just passed a barn. It’s half fallen down, so it must be empty.’

  Runtling paused. Yes, a building might do, mightn’t it? The barn was behind a few trees only a little way back. They found the door hanging off its hinges, and half the roof had collapsed. There was just enough room in the other half and it had a roof of sorts. The floor was hard, damp and cold.

  ‘There’s no straw to lie on,’ they complained.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to lie more on top of each other, won’t we?’ snapped Runtling.

  ‘Yes, but what if I’m on the bottom?’

  ‘Then you’ll come out flat! I suppose,’ sighed Runtling, ‘I suppose I’ll have to be look-out, and not sleep.’

  He sighed again. Being a leader was very tiring.

  Fern got up. ‘I’ll take the second watch,’ she said, very loudly and clearly. If Runtling was leader, Fern wished it to be known she was deputy leader.

  It was not long before the sun rose. That only made things worse, for now they had to be quiet in case someone on the path heard them. They could either sleep – if that was possible – or lie awake feeling hungry, most painfully, unbearably, unspeakably hungry. It was going to be a long day.

  Only a man and his dog came down the track that morning. The dog’s keen nose picked up a smell of pig. He was inquisitive. Off he bounded along the trail which led to the barn.

  Fern saw it first. ‘Something’s coming. A dog! It’s a dog!’

  In an instant the pigs were on their feet. Tail waving, the dog ran into the barn. He only wanted to play. But at the sight of those large, silent, staring pigs, his tail wagged more
slowly and he turned his head uncertainly to look at a wall, so as to avoid their eyes. Then his master whistled for him. As though he were relieved, the dog swung round and bounded away.

  The pigs waited in frozen silence. But nothing happened. Fern peered through the doorway. The path was empty. Man and dog had gone.

  But unknown to the pigs something far more dangerous to them was going on this very morning. Two notices appeared on the roadside, one on the road past Taggerty’s farm and the other outside the village of Pakton, where the post office and the pub and Kelly’s Stores – the shop that sold everything – were.

  On both sides of each notice board was written in large black letters: POLICE WARNING – PIGS ON THE ROAD.

  So the news was out after all. By midday almost everyone in the village knew that Taggerty’s pigs had escaped. As they passed the news on to each other, people carefully arranged their faces to look serious, even aghast. But a picture kept entering their heads. A picture of Jos Taggerty, red-faced, huffing and puffing up and down roads looking for his pigs, and it was impossible not to laugh.

  ‘But poor old Taggerty! What a nuisance for him,’ they would say, to excuse their laughter.

  ‘They can’t be far away,’ said the postman to Mr Kelly in the stores. ‘Perhaps they’ve got into Jones’s field and are digging up his turnips.’

  They both started to grin. It was a pleasing thought. Mr Jones was not popular. But Mr Jones was keeping a sharp eye on his fields – just in case. So were other farmers – just in case.

  At midday in the Holly Bush, the village pub, the first-comers were all talking about it. Ernie the postman, ‘Sawdust’ the carpenter, Old Bob his uncle, Johnny from Updown Farm, and Mary Mott his girlfriend.