The Great Pig Escape

by Linda Moller

  THE GREAT PIG ESCAPE

  A Green Story – A Wild Adventure

  THE GREAT PIG ESCAPE

  LINDA MOLLER

  Illustrated by

  Donald Teskey

  To Brian

  and all children who care

  about the creatures

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. The Great Escape

  2. The Night Cat

  3. Home! Home!

  4. The Fall of Taggerty

  5. An Evil Spirit

  6. The News Spreads

  7. The Second Night

  8. The Poison Field

  9. The Hunt

  10. Anger in the Wood

  11. They Came to a River

  12. Tell-tale Hoof Prints

  13. Hopeless Farm

  14. A Land Fit for Pigs

  15. Nick and Polly

  16. Pigs Ploughmen

  17. At Mrs Dew’s

  18. For Ever and Ever

  The Real World of Pigs

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  The Great Escape

  THERE WAS NO MOON that night but that was all the better – no-one would see him. The hedgerows were only a shade less black than the sky, and the roadway a shade less black than the hedgerows. It was barely light enough for the pig to see his way, but what he couldn’t see he could smell – cabbages in fields, and carrots, cows, cut grass, different hedge smells.

  Fifty smells a minute, he was sure of it. Green leafy things … brown moisty things … little things to eat … lovely things to roll in.

  Suddenly, a beam of light lit up the dark sky, moved across it, then vanished. A moment later it was back again, closer now and brighter. A truck had turned into the road, its headlights full on. There were two men in it.

  ‘Look! What’s that on the road?’ cried the astonished driver.

  ‘It’s a pig! Can you believe it? A pig on the road,’ said his companion.

  ‘Well, if he doesn’t get out of the way, he’ll be a dead pig. He’ll be next Sunday’s dinner,’ laughed the driver.

  The pig ran hard, but the truck’s lights dazzled and blinded him. In a panic he dodged this way and that.

  ‘Don’t run him over or he’ll be in too much of a mess to take home. Let’s catch him whole.’

  The truck ground to a halt and the driver switched off his headlights. The pig could see a little better. He could just make out a high old hedge above a ditch at the side of the road. He bolted for it. The next thing he knew he was falling head-over-heels down a steep bank into the bottom of the ditch. He lay there half-covered with dead leaves and mud under the branches of a tree. The ditch felt safe, but very damp.

  Both men leapt out of the cab and ran down the road looking for him.

  ‘Can’t see him,’ panted the driver.

  ‘Damn! Lost him. He could be anywhere. C’mon, forget him. Let’s get back,’ said his friend.

  The truck drove on again. It passed the pig where he lay in the ditch, too breathless to move.

  Meanwhile, an old fox was on his way home. He usually hunted along the hedge because small animals lived under its shelter. He hoped to catch a fieldmouse or a vole or two. As he pushed through the hedge, the smell of pig wafted up to him.

  That’s strange, he thought, and followed the scent until it led him to the pig.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’ he barked.

  The pig looked up, startled. ‘I fell in, if you must know.’

  He noticed a rather nasty smell, and it seemed to come from the fox.

  ‘Tell me, Fox,’ he added, ‘what’s that smell? Have you trodden in something?’

  The fox was quite indignant. ‘Certainly not. I’m not so careless. It’s not me that smells. I can smell everyone else’s smell, so if it were me I’d smell myself, wouldn’t I?’

  And with that he turned his back on the pig in a huff.

  ‘Sorry, Fox! Perhaps it was something in the ditch,’ the pig said to excuse himself, ‘but before you go, can you tell me the way to the other pigs? I’m going home!’

  ‘Going home? Why did you ever leave?’

  ‘I didn’t want to. Humans took me away. I was a runt, you see — number thirteen — the last of the litter. The sow hadn’t got a teat for me to drink from. I was only half the size of the others so I couldn’t fight for one. After they’d eaten I’d go round all Sow’s teats to get the leftovers. But there was never more than a drop or two.

  ‘Mrs Taggerty, the woman, fed me with a bottle of milk, sometimes. “That runtling,” she’d say, “he’ll never grow to a decent size. Why don’t we just give him away? I hear Stubbs is talking about getting a pig for his boy to look after and to eat up all the food scraps.”’

  The fox listened attentively, his huff already forgotten.

  ‘Well, in the end I went to Stubbs’s farm. Plenty of food there. But I was shut up alone. I couldn’t stand it. And his boy didn’t like me. All he wanted was a bicycle, a new bicycle. But I found a way to escape. And here I am. Do you think I’m big enough now for the Taggerty’s to let me stay?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You’re a grand size. But to get to Taggerty’s … let me see … that’s the next farm to the one after the next. You’ll be there before morning. But with those little piggy eyes of yours you’ll never see it in the dark. You’d better follow your nose. It’s long enough, your nose, you should be able to smell anything half a mile away. Just follow your nose, it’ll be easy, easy …’ and the fox was gone.

  ‘Follow your nose. It’s easy,’ repeated Runtling. But which way should I point my nose to follow it? He never told me that.

  But at the thought of finding the other pigs Runtling stopped being tired and scrambled out of the ditch. In front of him the road ran to the right and to the left.

  Do I follow my nose to the left or to the right? Which? Thank goodness it doesn’t go backwards and forwards too. I know … I’ll close my eyes and turn round three times and go whichever way my nose points.

  He whirled around three times, then once more just to make sure, and trotted down the road to the left.

  Soon he came to a large puddle of water. In the middle of the puddle, he stopped suddenly.

  This puddle, I remember it. I must be going back the way I came. Back to my sty. Oh no!

  He turned around very fast and fled down the road in the opposite direction.

  It went a very long way, that little road.

  ‘The fox said I’d be there before morning, I hope it’s before morning soon,’ gasped Runtling. The road led up a hill. At the top of the hill, a puff of wind brought a faint smell. It was a far away smell, but nice. As he climbed the hill it became stronger. It was a rich, warm, comforting smell. He followed it off the road and down a long lane that ended in a farmyard. This yard seemed familiar.

  From across the yard, somewhere behind a gate, came a quiet grunt.

  Pigs! Other pigs!

  Runtling ran to the gate, pushed his nose through the bars and grunted. He grunted loudly and urgently. First one pig, then a second came out of the shed and strolled towards the gate curiously. They stared at him. They sniffed him. Runtling squealed with excitement. They rubbed snouts with him. Could they be his brothers? They must be, they must.

  But the pigs soon lost interest in him and went back to their warm straw and the comfortable huddle of other sleeping pigs. Runtling pushed against the gate miserably. But it was locked, and for him there was no way in.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Night Cat

  RUNTLING LAY DOWN pressed close to the gate. It was cold, too cold to sleep. The dark yard was silent … or was it? Now and
again he heard a rustle in the darkness. There were scampering sounds too, and Runtling saw one, then two, lean smooth shapes slide between the bars of the gate.

  Rats!

  He was sure of it. He knew about rats – always gnawing things. Such long teeth they’ve got. With those teeth, three of them could gnaw a hole in that gate in no time. A really large hole.

  He called to them softly.

  ‘Rats! … Rats!’

  Silence …

  He tried again, very respectfully. ‘O Rats! … O Rats! …’

  No answer. But a shape, a large shape and one even darker than the darkness, crept closer and closer to the gate. Runtling’s bristles stood up with fear. The shadow edged nearer to him. Now he saw it more clearly. It was a big cat. A black cat. It spoke.

  ‘Seen anything?’

  ‘Oh, you gave me a fright creeping up like that,’ shivered Runtling.

  ‘Seen anything?’ the cat repeated, her yellow eyes glinting hungrily.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘What? Where?’ asked the cat.

  Runtling saw his chance. ‘You tell me how I can get into that pigyard and I’ll tell you what I saw.’

  ‘Through the gate. That’s the only way in. Follow me,’ and the cat squirmed easily through the bars of the gate.

  ‘I asked how can I, me, a pig, get into the pigyard, not how can you get into the pigyard,’ grunted Runtling. ‘I’m forty times bigger than you.’

  ‘Forty times! Well forgive me, but that’s beyond me, quite beyond me. Sorry,’ said the cat, shaking her head.

  ‘How sad,’ sighed the pig. He paused, ‘All the same, I will tell you what I saw – three rats, three large rats. They went through the gate into the pigyard.’

  ‘Good. So tonight at least, I will eat,’ grinned the cat, and vanished into the darkness. She soon reappeared, dropping the remains of a very dead rat.

  ‘Well, one good turn deserves another,’ she purred. ‘Now I’ll tell you something. Keep out of that pigyard. Soon those pigs will be taken away in a cattle truck and they’ll never return. They get sold. They’re food, you see. I know. I’m the farm cat. I go everywhere. I listen. I see, and I know.’

  Runtling shivered. ‘What, my mother too?’

  ‘Your mother? You mean the sow? The one in the separate sty? No, Taggerty keeps her on to breed or there’d be no more pigs to sell … I say, you’re trembling. I suppose I would too if I were a pig your size. But I’m the farm cat. It’s the safest job here, you know. But you’re not safe. You’d better go, before Taggerty finds you.’

  But Runtling didn’t go. Where could he go? And he couldn’t let the other pigs be taken away in the cattle truck. He must stay to warn them. Then they must plan an escape. The cat had said ‘soon’. When was soon? When? The cat would listen and hear, the cat would tell.

  CHAPTER 3

  Home! Home!

  EARLY NEXT MORNING Taggerty came across the yard trundling a bin of pigmeal. He was amazed to see a pig lying outside the gate. How did it get out? Had that Jones kid been mucking about in his yard again? He undid the gate.

  ‘Now, get in there,’ he shouted. He was about to use his boot but Runtling shot ahead of him and ran in through the gate and across the yard to join the others. Taggerty gazed at him admiringly.

  ‘Hmm! That’s some pig. I’ve done a good job there. He’s fattened well.’ Runtling was no longer the smallest of the lot, in fact he seemed to be a little bigger than the rest.

  Taggerty filled the food trough. As the pigs ate he stood there trying to work out how Runtling had got out. He wondered if a second pig had escaped and wandered off somewhere. Perhaps he ought to count them just to make sure. But this was too difficult right now. The pigs had eaten almost all the food he’d put out, and now they were moving round, pushing and changing places, hoping to find a little more food further down or further up or on the other side of the trough.

  Anyway, there seemed to be twelve there, Taggerty decided, and turned to his favourite thought. What price would he get per pig at market this week? Now multiply that by twelve.

  But he could never get such sums right when he did them in his head. By the time he’d reached the third or fourth figure, the first two figures had always slipped out of the corner of his mind. They would not be pinned down. It was annoying. He tried three times, then gave up. Never mind, it would be peanuts anyway compared with next year when the new buildings were up. Then he’d be multiplying by fifty not twelve … add a nought and multiply by five … but not now.

  Those new buildings … he’d have all the pigs divided into age groups, the older ones below and the others stacked up above them. He could see it all — rows and rows of pigs in easy-clean concrete pens, no straw, no mess, no yard to clean. A proper pig factory.

  The van would have to be painted white, with his name on too. ‘Taggerty’s Tasty Pork, J. Taggerty & Co.’ Or maybe ‘Taggerty’s Tender Pork’? Yes, in green letters with a buttercup or two painted alongside. Though daisies might be better. People liked to imagine that what they ate grew in fields, all naturally.

  At least, he decided, these pigs were heavy enough for market now. If he left it any later, they would only put on fat, and people had gone off fat. So this week it was. Market day was Wednesday. And off he went to tell the carrier to call on Wednesday morning.

  When the meal was over the pigs came up to Runtling in ones and twos. They couldn’t make him out. They pattered around sniffing him but he was looking for his mother.

  ‘Where’s Sow?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s in a sty of her own now, round the corner somewhere. You know, you look just like one of us, and you smell like us. Are you one of us? Are you going to stay?’

  ‘Don’t say you’ve forgotten me! I’m your brother, and I’m home again.’ Home, yes. But home was not the same. Sow had gone.

  The pigs were puzzled. ‘Well, why weren’t you here yesterday? Where have you been? Tell us.’

  So Runtling told them how he had been taken away in a van to Stubbs’s farm when he was a piglet. Didn’t they notice he had gone?

  ‘We don’t remember … But how did you escape? How did you get out of the pigpen?’

  ‘Well, one night I heard a sharp gnawing and cracking noise at the back of my shed – it went on for hours. The next morning when the boy came to clean out the straw, there in the corner of the wall, was a jagged hole. He bent down to sniff it and looked scared.

  ‘That night the noises started again. Then silence. The straw moved near my trough. And out came an enormous RAT! He was eating the few crumbs I’d left in my trough. I looked at his great yellow teeth and had an idea.

  “Rat, it’s me, the pig. Rat, would you gnaw a hole in that door for me to escape?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “I’d leave you more food in my trough.”

  “How much more?”

  “Lots, lots!”

  “Hmm,” said the rat thoughtfully. “Agreed! It could be a most useful arrangement. Stubbs has been putting down rat poison in the yard. Some of my family have died of it already.”

  ‘The next evening I left him a delicious sausage and some scones from my morning swill.

  “That’ll do to start,” he said and began on the door.

  ‘Just then I heard steps outside. It was the boy bringing my supper. The rat hid under some straw. Nervously the boy opened the door and plonked the bucket of swill down. He must have trodden on the rat’s tail because suddenly there was an ear-piercing squeal. The rat jumped halfway across the shed and streaked into his hole. The boy shrieked too and fled across the yard to the farmhouse.

  ‘A gust of cold night air was blowing into the shed. He’d left the door open! I ran into the yard. Knocked a bucket over. It clattered and clanked and rolled on the cobblestones. The farm dog barked. I ran faster, out of the yard, onto a road, down the road until the farmhouse lights were out of sight …

  ‘But let’s save the rest of the story for a
nother day, shall we?’

  ‘But you haven’t even told us your name yet,’ they said.

  ‘Runtling. That’s what people call me. What are your names?’

  They looked at each other, hesitating, and started to laugh.

  Then one of them said, ‘You’ll never believe it. I’m Hawthorn – some sort of a tree! And this is Mist and here’s Bramble.’

  Funny names for pigs, thought Runtling, not piglike at all.

  ‘Meadow. How about Meadow! That’s me!’ said another, echoing his thoughts.

  ‘What is a Meadow? What does it taste like?’ asked Runtling.

  ‘I wish I knew. I only know there are no buildings in a meadow, just shiny grass, and trees, and the sky above, like that little bit you can see over the gate, there, at the end of the yard. But they never, ever, let us out there. Never. We always have to stay in the pigyard or in our shed. And it’s so cramped. We’ve nothing to do all day except eat. Every day is the same. But you’ve been outside – all last night – you were running. Tell us about it again, Runtling!’

  But two pigs at Runtling’s side were nudging him for attention. ‘We’re Dawn and Dew. But we’re usually called the Piglings because we’re smaller than the others.’

  Then a fine-looking pig faced him. ‘Hello, I’m Fern. Runtling, you won’t leave us again, will you?’ she asked.

  There were still five other pigs pushing to get near him. He’d have to try to remember all their names. And he grew more and more uneasy that he had not yet warned them of what would happen to them. Tomorrow? The next day?

  Yes, he must warn them that they would be herded with shouts into a cattle truck, driven to the market, then – but the rest was beyond imagining.

  Fern was talking to him again. ‘It was Sow who insisted on our names and before her Old Sow had insisted, and before her, the Sow of Old Sow. You see the names go back a long time – all the way to the days before pigs were shut up for life in buildings, to the time when they roamed and lived free in woods and commons. The names are things they remembered from the old days in that world. Things pigs must not forget, so that when the time comes to go back to it, they will be ready.