Pigs In Paradise. Roger Maxson

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СКАЧАТЬ our parents,” Beatrice said.

      “Is it written somewhere that we should? I might be an animal, a parrot, but seriously, some of our elders would have us led over cliffs or to the slaughter through our holy reverence for them.”

      “Is what you said about his parentage true?”

      “What difference does it make?” Julius said. “His mother was a horse; his father a jackass, and together they had a darling little critter who grew up to take himself way too seriously, and now he’s an old mule, but from behind a real horse’s ass. Come to think of it, for a non-flocking mule, he certainly tries to flock everyone he can.”

      Mel stopped at the back corner of the perimeter fence as a man in dusty brown robes stepped from a crevasse in the desert rocks. He looked hungry, weather-worn, and sinewy.

      “Oh look, everyone! It’s Tony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert.” Mel stood at the fence as the monk came up to him. “They’re a fine pair, kindred idiots.” The monk reached over the fence and gave Mel a carrot and rubbed his nose. “Ah, isn’t that sweet,” Julius said, “just like two peas in a pod.” Julius rustled the olive branches, inspired. His face flushed pink from excitement. “Blaise, those two remind me of a couple of mallards.”

      “Why is that, Julius, because they’re loons?”

      * * *

      Mel’s story as per Julius

      “Before this moshav, it was pretty barren with no irrigation. One day a Bedouin Arab rode across the desert on a camel, leading a small caravan with a horse, donkey, and jackass as pack animals, Mel, his mother, and father. Even though Mel was quite young and small, he carried a substantial amount of goods. The Arab sold the goods to the Egyptians, and when depleted of merchandise and no longer needed pack animals, he sold Mel’s mother and father to his fellow Arabs. Oddly, no one wanted the young strong mule. He was strong, too strong, as it turned out. Thus, a djinn come out of the desert. Since he was an evil little djinn spirit, a demon-possessed mule-child, no one was willing to pay the price the Bedouin wanted for the muscular black mule. The Bedouin saw no choice. He removed the pack, and as he was about to shoot, out of the desert stepped Saint Anthony, ‘Alt!’

      “When the monk offered to take the demonic little evil mule for an exorcism, the Bedouin lowered the gun. I think Saint Anthony, the Hermit Monk of the Sinai Desert, wanted someone to talk to. The Bedouin donated the mule, mounted the camel, and rode off into the desert, never to be seen since that time. The hermit monk took the little tike under his dusty robe and led him into the desert where henceforth from that day forth neither of them was ever seen or heard from again. Okay, so I made that part up. He took Mel to raise and to protect and to teach – whew, and did he ever! When the Jews settled and started moshavim in the area, this moshav was started. One day, fence and fence posts appeared from one end of the farm to the other end, and from the border to the road. The next day, when the fence went up from post to post, encompassing these pastures, Mel stood in the middle of everything, where he’s been ever since, in the middle of everything.”

      “Really,” Beatrice said. “Is any of this true?”

      “All I know is what I hear. Then repeat it. I’m like my father that way. We’re parrots and great gossips who can never keep secrets. Of course, it’s true. You see the hermit monk of legend, and his protégé, the mule pope of legend too, don’t you?”

      “Where were you? Were you here, too, at the time?”

      “Oh, please, this is not about me, but since you asked. I was but a little chick at the time, still in my cage, swinging on my perch, singing, learning art, philosophy, happy as a lark, living up there in the big house, when all of a sudden. I’ll save that one for another time. Let it suffice to say it had something to do with my singing. I can sing too. I’m talented and creative. I’m left-taloned. Jesus, thank goodness they were Commie-bastard unorthodox Jews or I’d be singing a different tune. Here’s one of my personal favorites,

      ‘Nobody loves me, but my mother, and she could be jiving too . . .

      (Spoken)

      What I want to know now is what are we going to do?’

      “Unlike Marvelous Mel the Magnificent, I can’t answer that. The future doesn’t reveal itself in little revelations doled out from personal prophecies.” A small group of Muslims, mostly boys, from the nearby village, gathered stones. “But wait! Dare I say, I think I know what’s coming next?” They started after the monk when he turned and disappeared into the desert walls of the Sinai. “Aren’t mammals lovely,” Julius said. “Someday I plan to have one as a pet.”

      Mel moved away from the border to graze among the sheep and rams at the base of the terraced slopes.

      “Somebody has to keep that mule in check. What he’s trying to do to the animals is very dangerous, preying on their ignorance and fears. Once it takes hold it will be almost impossible to undo and reverse the damage done.”

      “Seriously, Julius,” Beatrice said, “what does it matter?”

      “In the name of Jesus or some other such nonsense, The Holy See will see to it that we’re dead.”

      “Who’s that?” asked one of the younger animals, a kid.

      “It’s nothing,” Blaise said.

      “Who is Jesus?” asked a little lamb.

      “Never mind,” Blaise said. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

      3

      The Rabbi Cometh

      Before the arrival of the red calf, Mel, the mule priest, revealed prophecy of things to come, namely a savior. A savior to save the animals from this world of human bondage.

      “Mel keeps going on about a messiah who’ll save us from our misery,” Blaise said. She and Beatrice walked through the pasture up the slope for the shade of the great olive tree. “Elevate us from our suffering.”

      “I don’t know about you, Blaise. I’m not doing so badly myself,” Beatrice said, “considering our present conditions.” She and Blaise were both heavy with pregnancies.

      “Well, I should hope so,” Blaise said, “As I’ve said, no one messes with you, not with a saddle, not with Stanley.”

      “Yes, well obviously he did this time.”

      “Yes, this time,” Blaise laughed, “but only because you wanted him to.”

      “And now look at me! It was nice, though, just as I’m sure it was for you and Bruce.”

      “Please, Beatrice, I’d rather not dwell on poor wonderful Bruce. It’s awfully sad what happened, I’m sorry.”

      Bruce, a shell of his former self, stood near the water tank in the feedlot behind the barn.

      “Yes, of course. Other than that, though, you seem to be all right.”

      “Yes, well, I have you as a friend, don’t I,” Blaise said.

      “Yes, who said only birds of a feather flock together?”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ