Farm Animals

By John Steelwell

A dictatorship isn't evil. It is the evolution of democracy.

 

The people have the right to defend themselves from the evils of oligarchy and the destruction of their culture.
 

Orwell was wrong. Power doesn't corrupt people.
 

People corrupt power.

 

On an oat farm, one man and his forefathers made a living. There were animals on his farm too. He wasn't very good at caring for them and they were not as stupid as he thought. Time went on and the animals began thinking, talking, asking themselves and each other: why were they living in sties?

One day the animals rebelled. They chose their own fate rather than leaving it in the hands of man. They chose their own path to freedom. From that day forth, they became the animals of the farm. The farm - the Farm. This was a free Farm. A democracy, with the "Farmer" elected from among them.

 

Not for long.

 

The pigs came along. They told the farm animals – they got it wrong. Their path to prosperity is all skewed.  The only way is through the unseen guiding force of nature. It speaks to the pigs. It tells them, that they must own the oat fields and the animals must work them. The farm animals must feed them.

 

As the pigs feed on the oat, it will trickle down their snouts. The fatter the pigs become, the wealthier the Farm is. One thing led to another, and the farm animals couldn't change that if they tried. They became a society forced to carry the dark flames of liberty of the few at the expense of the many.

 

All the animals were free - but some had all the freedom of others.

 

 

This tale is a tribute to the waning light of democracy and the anticipation of irreversible inequality. This story is a forewarning of the destruction of virtue and dehumanisation of man. A story of the new "progressive" values seeping into the society, serving the corporate interests with their iron grip over the seemingly independent democratic institutions. When the world around you is built on misconceptions, you must first find out the truth to make a difference. In this world the only way to move forward, is to understand the mistakes of the past. The people must be able to mobilise the democratic power to overcome the power of money. The only time a society will be free, is when the will of the people triumphs over the will of the capital. Therein lies the question to the reader:

 

    "If power corrupts, then who is keeping the power of the capital in check?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Steelwell
• Release date: May 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9780473646752

Book preview

Chapter 1

Untamed plains. Towering mountain. Knowledge that beyond there lay a sea. An ocean, far, far away. This is where the farm is, was and will be.

In a land far away beyond the mountains, across the sea, in the heartland of the land there is a farm. Not like any other. This farm is special. It is the Farm.

A man, many men and women built this one particular farm. Its land is bountiful and beautiful. Many have sought it from across the world, yet one man has found it. He claimed it for himself and built the Farm. It was there that he made a family and the Farm grew.

The man’s family also grew and multiplied. As the generation grew up and got old, the family spread among the cities. There was one man. One man did not leave and was true to his roots. He was the only one remaining. He inherited it from his father and his father before him.

He lived alone and away from others. He had a name but he lived far away and not many visited him. The man left living at the Farm is old. Not too old. He made himself a good life which made his ancestors proud. The man multiplied his wealth at this Farm. Not just the wealth he made himself but also the wealth his parents had before him and the wealth of their parents who first stepped onto this land. Their farm. His farm. Not just any farm - the Farm.

The man was tall and thin. He had grey hairs. Those hairs grew grey not only because he was old. They grew grey because the life took its toll. He worked hard and his body bore the signs of hard work. With time he started to realise this. While he was young he didn’t feel it. When he was young, the hard work strengthened his body. Now that he had started to get old, hard work didn’t strengthen him. It chipped away at him. He couldn’t keep up with the Farm much longer.

He lived and worked the Farm by himself. There were hounds by his side. One bloodhound never left his side. The collies were at the Farm and at his faithful service. They herded the sheep. They kept cattle at bay. They kept the stray dogs far from the Farm’s reach. It was an array of dogs, serving faithfully.

The Farm was big and the man’s lands vast. His possessions were in multitude. He owned many things and among the wealthiest of his possessions were the animals. The animals lived at the Farm. The farm animals. This Farm was far from the bustling city. The lush green fields surrounded it. The plains exposed the Farm to the rest of the world, curved by the hills’ landscape. On the outskirts was the pine forest. It brimmed with untamed life. Man did not dare face it. To tame that life will take work. Work that he didn’t need to do, nor work that he could do. From the Farm, a road led through the forest, winding across the fields. The road led to the city that lay outside the Farm and the civilisation.

Out there in the wilderness, lay a pond with a life of its own. It was forgotten, untouched. It is there frozen in time. A dense bush separated it from the rest of its surroundings. It was a refuge for the wildlife. Animals lived there undisturbed by man.

There was, at the centre of the Farm, a patch of dusty stamped out ground. Covered with a tidy wooden roof, there was a well that gave water and life to the generation that lived there. It was the centre of the Farm. It was a gift, by the generation before it. It was a difference between life and death. Failure and prosperity. Until it became obsolete by the advancements of technology. A brass pipeline replaced the well. It made water’s rudimentary excavation obsolete. The well however, remained.

Next to the well was a collection of big old wooden barrels. They made much use as water stores for the animals. They also made much fun for the kids that once grew up at the farm as makeshift pools. Those barrels were the source of endless entertainment. Those barrels were some of the oldest things there. Some had lids on them; some were open. Those barrels were important to the Farm as much as the well was. When the well gave water, the barrels stored it.

The well was the centre of the Farm and the barrels easily became a makeshift podium if need be. Together, the well and the barrels formed what could rightfully be called a Farm square. Though not a true square, it did its best to be as geometrically square as it could, with the well at its centre, the barrels in its vicinity and the Farm house next to it. It was the centre of the Farm. Various pathways and minor roads linked the Farm square with the rest of the Farm. The road linked other areas of the vast Farm: the paddocks, planes, and various buildings made to accommodate the recently adopted animal husbandry. Like veins, it fed convenient routes to other places. The Farm was connected.

The Farmer’s house was in that square. It was a one and a half storey house, with high ceilings, the ground floor and a paddock. A visitor would first see a stout mahogany door with a polished brass handle. The inscription on the door read "Oatley" with its italicized brass letters, shining brightly enough to mislead the visitor into thinking they were gold. They were dim gold letters. Time weathered brass and the dweller failed to notice it. The dweller however. was too busy to care.

There were few visitors to the Farm. Yet, those from the town nearby knew that name well. The Oatleys were renowned oat growers in their time. As the time passed, the Oatley family diversified and bred cattle stock and other animals. In time, the Farm became abundant in meat, eggs, milk, poultry as well as oats. Oatley, was the family name. They changed it to fit their oat growing trade since they first came to the Farm from a land far away, a long time ago. Now, they didn’t grow just oats.

One man lived in that Oatley house. Generations have grown up in it and moved on. It was a place where the family shared joys and sorrows of life. The Oatleys worked hard and reaped rewards from their hard work.

The Oatley house was small and tidy. It would be cramped for a big family and yet nonetheless cosy. A visitor would walk directly into the lounge. An array of oak furniture and a large leather couch, was said to have been made by the man who built this house. A master of many talents. This was his throne, the Farmer’s throne. It was a work of craftsmanship and would have been valuable had it been sold. The lounge flowed into a drawing room that made for entertaining guests at one end. At the other end, the lounge flowed into a kitchen via a narrow doorway. There was the family bedroom. Finely stitched blue velvet sheets covered the bed in luxury and the darker blue curtains calmed the room. There was also a bedroom made for the guests and one for the children that lived there, stacked with bunkbeds.

With time, the people that lived there moved on. They moved on to bigger lives and bigger houses. The reputation and wealth generated by the Farm accommodated a fresh start for many family members, either at the adjacent cities or in the lands far away. The people who grew up at the Farm, used their fortune to pursue lives of their own. Some were successful, some were not.

An old man lived in this house. He was the last of the Oatleys. The house was too big for him to manage, let alone the Farm.

A Farm wouldn’t exist without a barn, the maroon building with white edges. It is there that the Farmer stored the oat. Oat is running low at the Farm and times of prosperity have long passed. Times like these, when the stores are empty and then full came and went. It all depended on the seasons and the hand that nature dealt the Farmer. Then, fate dealt a hand and the old man didn’t draw the right cards. Fate wasn’t kind to him and he needed help.

The seasons have not been as fruitful in the recent times. His livestock was in jeopardy. They were the hens, the pigs, the cows, the donkey and a horse. The mice fell into the mix too.  They lived on his farm unbeknownst to the Farmer. There were also the pigeons along with other feathered attaché. The dogs that kept them safe. The cats that caught the rodents. It was a home to many animals. There was also the Farmer, though he did not count himself a farm animal. They all foresaw the times ahead. Times have become harder, life less comfortable and unsustainable.

During the day the Farmer would walk among his fields, his lands and his property with a cheerful strut. His faithful bloodhound would join him by his side. The Farmer had named him Sparky. Sparky would sniff the ground for danger and quickly alert his master with a volley of loud barks at the slightest note of suspicion. A faithful hound did not hesitate to alert his master. A hound faithful to the Farmer and the Farm.

The Farmer would walk around his lands. He would watch his lands with the help of his loyal hound. The Farmer would walk the pebbled paths finely stomped into a small road over the years, he would see his subjects. He would see his animals. His farm animals.

He saw his subjects and they would see him. He looked down into their eyes and they into his. There was no understanding between them, for he was the Farmer and they were his farm animals.

Stupid animals, he would think to himself and at times murmur out loud. Though he did not murmur loud enough. It was stupid that the Farmer thought the animals would hear him. He wouldn’t say it out loud in front of them nonetheless, as if he cared that they heard him. He called them names, quietly, as if he almost feared they heard him. He shrugged off the idea that they could understand him. But what if they did? It didn’t matter. He was the Farmer, they – his farm animals. They looked up at him from their paddocks, and in their eyes was blunt powerlessness. They stood completely at his mercy. The Farmer directed them. They obeyed. He fed them, worked them and used them. For profit. For food. For the Farm.

As he walked around his land, he understood that his old age had gotten the best of him. His best years were gone. Now it was time to retire. Pass on the torch. But to whom? It was time for him to get on with the times. Then it t dawned on him: the progress of modern technology meant that his livestock could service itself. Not only his livestock but also his oat fields. All he needed to do was make the right purchase and reap the rewards. All he needed was a machine. A harvester that does not tire, does not falter. A beast of steel that would not look up at him with any emotion. It would simply follow orders. A beast that would replace the hardworking man at the Farm. A beast that would shear the sheep, slaughter the stock, milk the cows, butcher the animals as he needed and most importantly would harvest the oat from the Farm’s vast fields. It would replace the Farmer’s work, so that he could finally rest. A dream where the Farm tends to itself was not farfetched. It was today’s dream of tomorrow.

The Farmer walked past his pigeon house. He took a stroll outside the pathway that looped the Farm. He saw all the things that he owned. Visited all of the Farm’s parts. Now he was at the outskirts. A trodden path led across the open planes into the forest nearby. It led to the pond.

The pond had a life of its own. A world of its own. This was a world frozen in time. Undisturbed pond lilies bloomed at their own accord and were occasionally rudely awakened by youth that inhabited the Farm.

Both densely and finely grown twigs grew at the pond, encapsulating their ward by overextending tree branches of various size. They protected the pond from sunlight and the rest of the world. They covered the pond from the sun and made the mysterious aura possible. Those few golden sun rays that made it through the twigs illuminated the pond. Mossy rock lay at the seat of the pond as if a base for the inhabiting creatures to launch into the water. The rock absorbed light and was a source of warmth for critters living there. The Farmer slowly walked there, accompanied by his faithful hound. It was a place unaffected by the building of the Farm. It was the same a day before and as it was a hundred years ago. The pond remained untouched by man no matter what. It is a world that kept its equilibrium. It was not like the Farm.

As the Farmer walked away from the Farm outskirts and closer to the pond, nature took its course and reclaimed the path that he tried to take. Nobody was walking on it. So the nature reclaimed it. The faint, bald line remained that remembered the man’s boot. It was a faint path. The narrow stretch of land led to the pond, very faintly showing the way.

He saw the pond, filled with fireflies and an old tortoise atop a rock. The Farmer did not go far. He wasn’t welcome here. His reign ended at the Farm. He stood in the shadow of the mighty trees with a few rays of light shining atop his straw hat. He took a deep breath of the cold, rich air through his sun weathered nostrils and then breathed it out just as slowly. Sparky, his faithful hound chased the bugs away from his master as he stood still. He took a moment to witness the beauty of nature and left. The wild creatures of the forest were left with a view of an old man walking and his hound rushing through the tall grass towards the Farm.

The Farmer hailed his herder dogs in the paddocks and in the open field. At once they stood at attention. Their eyes, in a row watching carefully where their master went. He walked to his house. He entered. At once the hounds stood at ease. The Farmer opened the door to his house. His age was takings a toll on him. He got tired quickly. He walked kilometres in a day and that was barely enough to cover his Farm. He could not do this for much longer.

A catalogue lay on the dining table greeted him, opened on the advertisement of a product that enticed him the most. He felt relief. He remembered that he does not need to cater for the Farm much longer. He slowly sat down at the table, taking extra care for his old joints and bones. The Farm of the Future, Today! read the cover page. Gadgets, techniques, products and machines that were the product of cutting edge technology. Machines. Most importantly, machines that could harvest and run the Farm. The steel beasts who do not tire or falter. Two machines in particular: an automated slaughter house and a harvester made of chrome.

The former came in various sizes and colour patterns. Most customers don’t want be reminded that there is a slaughterhouse on their land. Even so, in the coming of ethical slaughtering, the owner did not have to take part in it. Just let the animal through and the machine will do the rest.

The latter came in one size and one colour, a sun powered machine capable of self service. The idea of the two made the Farmer smile. At last he would get his long sought rest. A new era, a new Farm, a new Farmer. In this particular case, a very happy Farmer. He can finally retire and keep the Farm in safe hands.

Part of the service the magazine offered was for their representative to come and assess the area of the Farm and give a pricing quote. An estimate of how much they were to charge for the installation and the provision of the goods. The magazine withheld from setting solid prices. Only estimates. Every price had a condition. A disclaimer – every Farm is different and the service must be tailored to every need. They gave the price on the spot.

There was something else different about this catalogue: multiple financial options. They accepted goods: agricultural products and cattle. The provider bartered. At times the people in the farming trade did not have the money there and then to pay for the goods. They would sell their goods to the catalogue provider, who then sells them through private contractors on commission. Goods in exchange for goods. It worked out for everyone. It was a fair deal.

The Farmer took some time to sit down. His trusty hound sat by his side as he strolled through the pages of the catalogue. While gently gripping each page and inhaling the smell of the freshly printed press, a particular item caught his attention. It was the "Caretaker 2000." A machine capable of managing the agricultural assets on an autonomous basis... The fancy words meant to him one thing, or at least he thought they did – that the Caretaker can manage the Farm all by itself to the utmost efficiency.

Luckily for him, it was a promotion contained in the coupon with the catalogue; a promotion that gave a discount on purchasing the Asset Manager 1991. This machine contained the delicacy special, artificial intelligence capable of creating meat products glorified with the Best Butcher award four years in a row. This was an add-on that makes the meat into a series of flavoured sausages as well as fine cuts of meat, taking into account the type of meat and the preferences of the owner. He book-marked that page. It was his favourite page. He crinkled the page’s corner. He also kept the catalogue open on that very page just to be sure he won’t lose it. He hesitated whether an autonomous butchery is something he in fact needs. He is in the oat business. He thought about it every day.

"Maybe with time," he thought to himself.

Maybe he will get it.

Maybe he will get them both.

Chapter 2

Unbeknownst to the Farmer, a storm was brewing at the Farm. A storm not of force of nature but that of the farm animals. In barns, fields, pens and the sties. The farm animals have had enough of the Farmer. Free from the vigilant gaze of the Farmer and his hounds, they plotted their liberation. The Farm animals have had enough. The Farmer’s despotism and tyranny had to end.

Living in filth and endless cold they took little refuge in homes. He fed them but barely enough for them to live. At times when they caught his gaze they felt betrayed. The Farmer owed the farm animals a duty. He had a duty to raise them and look after them as his farm animals. Despite their work and their sacrifice, he only enriched himself. The farm animals got little to nothing in return. It was his duty to look after them. Yet he did no such thing.

He beat them, shoved them, set his dogs on them and took what little they had from them. He sheared the sheep and took from them wool. Took the chickens’ eggs, chopped their necks and ate them. He could not butcher the cows and the pigs any longer as he was too frail and at the same time, he couldn’t feed them. They did not know that a fate waited for them which was worse. They did not know it. They felt it as well as the hunger and destitution. Once he buys the machines he needs, it will all change. The Farmer will butcher the farm animals. Not by his feeble old hands, rather by the technology that he will acquire. Thus their imminent revolt and the eventual revolution was timely.

The farm animals have long sought justice, so that they who live at the Farm will be fed and looked after. They all hoped that one day, no tyrant would oppress them. That they would not hunger and destitute. They would be free and prosperous. One day, they wished that they would live and multiply in peace. They would no longer live in fear from the self-proclaimed Farmer. Of one man.

They came from different parts of the Farm and they were all different. Yet they all held onto their dream, so that one day they would have no master. A Farm run by the farm animals. A Farm for the farm animals.

The man, the Farmer and the tyrant held overwhelming power over them all. He had no other creed but power. This made him the Farmer and them his farm animals. A master and his servants. He exerted power over them. He called on his dogs to do his bidding for him. He lifted objects and shaped the world around him. Now he has grown frail and the debility of his power showed. The farm animals were in awe. Not anymore. Now the balance of power shifted.

The farm animals were held back by their nature. They have nothing but their hides to stop the unyielding scorching of the sun or the piercing cold. The farm animals had to rely on the Farmer to feed them. They were fully at his mercy. If only they could be in charge of their own lives. If only they could eat whenever they needed to. They wanted not just food, they wanted more - to overcome nature. To never suffer the hardship of life. Never to drift passively in the stream of destiny. To bend nature to their will. Once they became the masters of their own lives, Farmers of their own Farm, only then will they be free. This was their goal. To be free.

In the darkness of pens, in the emptiness of the night and in the vast pastures they came together with their solemn purpose. Life has pushed them closer together. In the hardship of seasons, they strengthened their resolve to build the Farm that gave them freedom.

Among them were farm animals that believed in the new Farm more than others. Their furore for justice, freedom and a Farmer chosen by the farm animals stood from among the rest. Feather was one of them, an old crow. Crums an old goose and Sparky one of the Farm’s hounds. A traitor to the Farmer but loyal to the Farm. All got together and envisioned the future of the Farm. A new world, one of freedom, one of justice, one of liberty.

They led the farm animals by exercising the reputation they earnt among them. They were the sails and the Farm was the wind that steered them to a new world. The revolution was on the horizon and they steeled their hearts to get there. A Farm without the tyrant Farmer. They would bide their time and when it came, they would strike. At once they would jump from all corners of the Farm, they would break of their pens, their sties and their homes. If they could, they would crush them to destroy the remnants of the old Farm.

The Farmer himself awed them as he stood on his two legs, with his stature ascending towards the sky. The sun would shine behind him. His silhouette eclipsing the farm animals. A majestic sight. The farm animals wanted to be like him. How noble a sight of man, how he towers above nature. Man is not limited by it. Man adapts to nature and overcomes it. The world was his pen and his sty once. It is no longer such. The man overcame it. Now it was time for the farm animals to break free of their pens. Yet their task was harder. Not only would they have to face nature. They too had to face man, who would not let go of his reign lightly. The Farm was his all. It would be a bitter fight.

The clash will soon take place. The bets were in. The farm animals will face the force of the Farmer. They will face him together. The farm animals were not going to stand down. With time, in the shadows, free from the Farmer’s gaze the farm animals gathered together. During the day, it was dangerous. The Farmer nor the Farmer’s hounds could suspect that something was happening behind their backs. The Farm was large. The Farmer took a long time to walk and service his lands but the hounds would patrol the Farm.