HONOR AMONG THIEVES #10

Deep in the centre of the farm, animal volunteers were busy erecting a new gargantuan statue, the likes of which had never been seen on the farm before. The base of the statue was red and the statue itself – a stern looking wolf – was white, from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. They took great pride in their work, telling every animal that passed by that they were not getting paid for their work. They swore to all the animal gods that they were doing it for the love of White, whom they now referred to as prophet White.

Every morning when they came to work on the statue, they began with the Whitist prayer and before they left for the day, they ended with it.

In the name of the White father

And of the farm hands

And of the holy Whitists

Bless us…

As this was going on, the leader of the bats, (who was also shot by Dick-Tai - White’s overzealous, genocidal farm hand) had begun to recover. He asked his deputies, those who had not been killed by Dick-Tai, to count the missing bats. And they counted and counted and counted. 705. 705 bats, with names and which ceilings they had come out from. Missing. Or dead.

Dick-Tai walked around with cotton buds in his ear to block out any noise from the bats he had not killed or from those who now accused him of being in charge of a major yam barn when Goodhead was farm leader.  That yam barn had now been audited by White and found to have been looted by Goodhead and his hyena That’s Uki. Animals whispered that, perhaps, if Dick-Tai was in charge of yams then, he too had questions to answer.

Meanwhile, the committee of animals that was created to make sure that no farm manager became a dictator, was busy allocating yams to themselves. Because this committee was powerful and paid animals for doing no work in particular, many former species leaders, who were old, infertile or even senile, found their way into the committee. The committee was where animals addicted to stealing went to live out their days. There were many who had danced and dined with Goodhead in his days of plundering the farm. There were some even who had been plundering the farm long before Goodhead became farm manager.

In the west of the farm, O’shege, the old baboon and former farm manager who had in fact introduced Goodhead to the farm in the first place, was holding court, scratching his hairy back and scrotum and telling any animal that cared to listen how bad the committee members were.  As former farm manager he had plundered the farm too, but made sure he hand selected the next farm manager so no one would ask him questions.

“I know I am a thief,” O’shege declared. “But this new committee is full of thieves worse than I am. Really. I may be an old infertile baboon, but I am wise. Remember the committee when I was farm manager? Those idiots who refused to let me remain as farm manager in perpetuity. Yes. At least I couldn’t use yams to get my way then. Now yes, White may be clean and all but this committee is filthy. Really filthy. As a former thief myself, I have to say they give thieves a bad name. There should be honor even among animals who steal. Honor and respect. In my days, younger thieves respected older thieves.”

All the while O’shege picked his nose and scratched his scrotum.

 

One member of the committee, a dog named Nodee, became furious.

“How dare O’shege cast aspersions at us? How dare one thief accuse another?”

Nodee was famous for being the guard dog for the committee leader, especially when Whitists once suggested that the committee leader might be a thief. Nodee performed calisthenics and barked loudly. He dared anyone to touch the committee leader.

Nodee barked again.

“I have tremendous respect for O’shege. He is an old baboon. Yes he may scratch his sagging balls in public but I respect old baboons. However he is mistaking us for the committee that refused to take his yams and make him farm manager in perpetuity. We may be thieves, but we did not steal from him.”

And the Whitist worshippers organized conventions to venerate White, now prophet White. They planned to raise the statue of White and make it mandatory for every animal to bow before it or be declared a traitor loyal to Goodhead.

And the Whitists chanted the official Whitist prayer, day and night, endlessly:

In the name of the White father

And of the farm hands

And of the holy Whitists…

Bless us White for we have sinned

Bless our thoughts

Bless our desires

Bless our intentions

Blessed be thy name

Thy will be done in every quarter among every animal species

Teach us to love your will

Teach us to be teachable

Teach us to trust your will even when your will may not be clear

Teach us to defend your will before it becomes your will

For thine are the decisions, the thoughts and the glory

For as long as you choose to be farm leader

Amen.

And all the while, White walked through the farm, a pain in his side, silent.

THE RATIFICATION OF THE WHITIST PRAYER

In the name of the White father

And of the farm hands

And of the holy Whitists…

Bless us White for we have sinned

Bless our thoughts

Bless our desires

Bless our intentions

Blessed be thy name

Thy will be done in every quarter among every animal species

Teach us to love your will

Teach us to be teachable

Teach us to trust your will even when your will may not be clear

Teach us to defend your will before it becomes your will

For thine are the decisions, the thoughts and the glory

For as long as you choose to be farm leader

Amen.

Upon adopting the standard Whitist prayer, the council of Whitist priests decided to make copies and take them to each species leader, all thirty six of them. There had been a call for a unification of all Whitist religions so that there could be a single priesthood, a single theology, a single body of beliefs for all animals who converted to Whitism and accepted White as their lord and animal savior. White had saved the farm from collapse. Sent by the animal gods, he had done his duty by taking over the farm and the priests were not going to allow a thing like freedom of worship come between them and properly venerating White. People tried to make excuses and if you examined those excuses, they were carefully hidden shields of sympathy for Goodhead, the evil former farm manager and That’s Uki his hyena, now in chains.

Not everyone was compliant. Not everyone saw the infallibity of White as something worth protecting. Not everyone who was fingered by That’s Uki trembled with fear and brought back yams. Some spoke back. Like Mai Tusa, a goat who had worked closely with Goodhead. Mai Tusa got his name as a child when he could not stop farting in public. Even as a grown goat, he regularly farted in the public square. While Goodhead was farm manager, animals had to endure Mai Tusa’s farting especially as he brought crucial information from Goodhead.

Mai Tusa bleated wildly when he was tied up by White’s farm hands and asked if he was going to return the yams he had taken or not. Once, tired of being chained, Mai Tusa, while farting, said he had one large tuber of yam to return. The farm hands took him to where he claimed he had the tuber but he insisted he had to carry the tuber himself. They agreed and as soon as they got to the centre of the farm where he was being questioned, Mai Tusa asked for a moment to look at the tuber of yam one last time. Even though it was not rightfully his, he had sentimental attachment to the yam, he said. And as they left him alone, he changed his mind and proceeded to devour the yam, raw, farting loudly as he did. By the time the farm hands came in, it was too late to save any of the large tuber.

“Never!” Mai Tusa bleated as they struggled to save some of the yam from his mouth. “Never! I will never return yams. I’d rather eat them raw.”

And they proceeded to bind his feet with rope.

As all of this was going on, the water pipes that came from the marshes kept being blown up and no one knew whether it was the old wild dogs that Goodhead had domesticated or whether it was the leaders of the turtles who did not really like White.

White meanwhile, was looking at the farm records, looking at all the records since Goodhead started managing the farm. As he stared at all the names of animals who had plundered the farm, an owl came flying past, screaming:

The farm managers before Goodhead had also mismanaged yams and water and grains. Like former farm manager O’shege who, though old and almost infertile, lives in the west of the farm, making noise and hosting animals as though he was a saint while he ran the farm. O’shege recruited Goodhead. O’shege has questions to answer. Just look at the records. Just one page before Goodhead started running the farm. Just look. Ok. Ok. Look at some of your own farm hands. Look at Rot In Me. I know his book is with the species leader, but look at it…

And White shooed the owl away gently. And when the owl wouldn’t go away, Whitist priests, especially the monkeys, got catapults and stones and fired at the owl until, for fear of it’s life, it flew away.

White rose and went to a wealthy farm a few hours away where he was told some yams from the farm were taken to following Goodhead’s exit from power. Many animals originally from White’s farm were living as fugitives and flaunting their yams. And White had a meeting with the farm manager and they both agreed to find all the animals that had fled there and all the yams they came with.

And White came back content. Smiling but not speaking. He smiled as he passed by That’s Uki still confessing. He smiled as he walked by Mai Tusa still farting. He smiled as he walked past Rot In Me with his new white feathers singing hymns and proclaiming righteousness. He smiled as he walked past the Whitist priests. And the Whitist priests, who had now all ratified the official Whitist prayer, chanted:

In the name of the White father

And of the farm hands

And of the holy Whitists…

Bless us White for we have sinned

Bless our thoughts

Bless our desires

Bless our intentions

Blessed be thy name

Thy will be done in every quarter among every animal species

Teach us to love your will

Teach us to be teachable

Teach us to trust your will even when your will may not be clear

Teach us to defend your will before it becomes your will

For thine are the decisions, the thoughts and the glory

For as long as you choose to be farm leader

Amen.

And White walked past them all, smiling in spite of the pain in his side, silent.

THE RELIGION CALLED WHITISM

Trouble is brewing on the farm, bubbling slowly underneath the surface, but drowned out by raucous praise worship services of animals loyal to White, who have now started a religion. Whitism they call it. Whitists they call themselves. And where Whitism thrives, there is neither failure nor evil; neither mistakes nor bad choices. With Whitism there is no trouble, even where there is trouble. Because old things have passed away and all things have become new and white.

White is walking, hands behind his back, observing Whitist prayer sessions, silent. He looks away when some species leaders pay young animals to become full time Whitist priests. He nods and the farm hands know what to do. They sweep in, moving to the rhythm of Whitist hymns, picking up animals who were loyal to Goodhead and his hyena That’s Uki. White stares at the crocodile swamp as he passes by, glowering at the leader of the crocodiles. The crocodile leader is a sworn Whitist and patron to a few young Whitist priests. Or at least he says so. The crocodile leader watches as White occasionally stops to rest because his liver is acting up. Soon White will have to travel to a farm far away where they have veterinary surgeons who perform transplants. The crocodile leader allows himself to dream that perhaps, soon, if White gets too tired to run the farm, he can step in and become farm manager. White knows this and that is why he glowers.

“Bless me White for I am your loyal servant,” the crocodile leader says, bowing, as White comes closer.

White blesses him but both their eyes say something else.

The crocodile leader’s eyes say: I can see that you will not last very long. I do not agree with many things that you do. I will complain in private. But I will hang on. Because soon, I will become farm manager.

White’s eyes say: I can see that you want to become farm manager. But I remember a time when I came to visit the farm, when you still worked for Goodhead. I remember the way you spat at me then, before you began to swear that you were a Whitist. And I do not forget. I never forget.

White says: “You are blessed, my dimunitive crocodile son.”

He winces in pain. The crocodile leader smiles.

The rumours of White and the pain in his side are spreading. The rumour that White does not intend to stay too long as farm manager is also spreading. And all the animal heads are watching and making moves so that if the pain in White’s side becomes too great to handle or if White decides not to continue as farm manager, they can step in and take over.

As the animal leaders are plotting, the Whitist priests are turning up the volume of their praise worship services. Young animals are receiving extra portions of food to drum and formulate songs about all the great things that White is doing. Young Whitists go to places where animals worry about the limp in White’s walk and whether White knows exactly how to bring the farm back to life. They go there and they begin to drum, very loudly.

White is walking. May he walk faster.

White is thrusting. May he thrust harder.

White is winning. May he win better.

And we are joyful. May our joy increase.

They dance around in circles and accuse people who ask them to be a little quiet of being traitors and friends of That’s Uki, the hyena who helped Goodhead plunder the farm.

White is changing his mind about a few of the things that were promised in meetings he held with animals who secretly opposed Goodhead, at around the time when he was trying to take over the farm. White told them that he would give 5 cups of grain to animals who could look for their own food. At that meeting it was not White who spoke, but one of his assistants. He only nodded. And now White has changed his mind. So he has asked one of his new assistants to make announcements in the centre of farm to say that 5 grains to all indolent animals was simply unrealistic. And as the assistant speaks, White nods, silent.

Deep in the south of the farm there is trouble brewing. One of the pipes carrying water from the marshes to the rest of the farm has been blown up. The word on the farm is that a wild dog named Some Fellow who used to be friends with Goodhead has done it. White has been trying to get Some Fellow and has asked his farm hands to chain it wherever it is found. But animals are hard to capture in the dark marshes. This is great for the leader of the turtles and the prominent turtles who live in the marshes. Any of them can blow up the water pipes and blame it on Some Fellow.

It has been a long time since a wild dog blew up a water pipe.

There is still not much food on the farm. That’s Uki is still reeling out names of those with whom he and Goodhead plundered the farm. Dead bats, massacred by farm hand Dick-Tai, still smell in the corners of the farm. The Whitist religion grows stronger and louder – they now have external loudspeakers in their places of worship. And White still walks around the farm, hands behind his back, feeling a pain in his side, silent.

PS. As usual, no animals were harmed in the production of this story, not even goats who get yams to serve as full time Whitist priests. And any coincidence between the animals on this farm and any humans, real or imagined, dead or alive, is just that - a coincidence.