Paul Shipton

The Pig Who Saved the World

The only indication of the new dawn was a thin arc of daylight framing the cave's blocked-up exit. It had been a long, busy night, though I can't claim to have contributed much to the busy part.
  Sibyl and Homer were putting the finishing touches to my disguise. As the former priestess stuck down the last bits of wool with clay from the cave floor, Homer optimistically fluffed up the bits that were already on.
  'How does that look?' he asked hopefully.
  'Like a pig randomly covered in bits of wool,' said Sibyl, who did not believe in candy-coating the bitter truth.
  But we were many stades past the point of no return. Sibyl and Homer tiptoed over to the sheep pen, steering me in the right direction. The cyclops' breathing no longer had the faraway sound of deep sleep. He would soon be awake.
  As we crept under the bottom rung of the fence, the natural stupidity of the sheep served as our ally - the animals made no fuss as we mingled with them.
  All I can remember of the next few minutes is: the press of wool on all sides; the growing bleats as more and more of the flock awoke; the tangy aroma of farm animals that lacked all awareness of basic hygiene and didn't care who knew it.
  'What are you doing?' I heard Sibyl hiss to Homer.
  The poet wrinkled his nose. 'Looking for one whose belly isn't so dirty. Otherwise it'll set off my allergies.'
  'Terrific idea,' replied Sibyl tetchily. 'After all, we wouldn't want you to have a runny nose when the cyclops shoves you into his mouth and starts munching.'
  Speaking of the cyclops' mouth, just then a tremendous yawn resounded through the cave. The one-eyed giant was waking up. The bleating all around me grew louder, more urgent. The sheep knew their master was up and about.
  'Brekkie time,' the cyclops muttered aloud.
  Uh-oh. My mind foolishly tossed up the memory of when the cyclops had simply picked up one of Odysseus's men and started chewing. I would never forget the terrible snap, crackle and pop of that awful meal. Was the cyclops going to start the day with a little protein now by reaching in and plucking out a sheep for his breakfast?
  Thankfully not - the one-eyed giant grabbed a barrel of whey and slurped it down in one go.
  'Stinkin' whey for brekkie,' he grumbled. 'Again.' He burped wetly and wiped his immense forearm across his lips.
  'Right, me byooties,' he addressed the flock, 'it's out wiv you lot.'
  I couldn't see over the sheep around me, but the sound of scraping rock told me that the giant was opening the exit. Pale light filled the cave.
  Excitement was running high among the sheep. This must have been one of the highlights of their day. They jostled for position as the cyclops stomped across to open the gate to their pen. I could no longer see Sibyl or Homer, who must by now have been gripping on to the bellies of two unlucky sheep.
  And then the flock was surging forward. I was carried along, a fact that spared me from undertaking the highly tricky process of putting one trotter in from of the other. I squeezed my eyes shut, squinting just enough to make sure I was heading towards the light but ensuring that I could not really see the giant we would have to pass by.
  The sheeps' hoofs clattered on the cave floor. The light ahead was growing stronger and stronger - so strong that I even started to think the unthinkable . . . Could this plan actually work? Would I live to see another day? Feel the wind once more through my bristles? Frolic once more through fields of grass - well, OK, not exactly frolic, but amble at least?
  ''Old on,' grunted the cyclops. 'This un in't right.'
  A fleshy wall descended in front of me. It was the giant's foot, and I hit it, head on. The sheep behind me bumped into me, the one behind that bumped into it, and so on, in an enormous livestock pile-up.
  Suddenly, there I was, face to face with the cyclops' big toe. It was half the size of me, as blunt and hard-looking as some relentless, snub-nosed digging creature, yet it seemed to fill my world with its yucky hard skin and untrimmed, yellowing nail. I was almost hypnotized by the toe's circular whorls, like some ancient labyrinth of skin.
  The cyclops brought his huge head down and sniffed. 'Don't smell right, does you? Proppa whiffy. Is you sickenin', me byooty?'
  Under other circumstances, I might have taken offence. After all, the wave of bad breath that came from the cyclops' mouth told me that he was not over-zealous about brushing and flossing after eating some unfortunate creature whole. As for his armpits . . . well, you don't want to go there.
  But I said nothing, did nothing. I was immobilized by naked terror. Total, starkers, in the all-together, flapping-in-the-breeze-without-even-a-fig-leaf-for-decency's-sake, nuddy, naked TERROR.
  The cyclops' eye was a huge cracked mirror in front of me, and in the enormous disc of the pupil I could see myself - a fat little pig with scraps of wool stuck here and there across its back.
  I looked . . . bite-sized.
  ''Ere, you isn't no baa-sheep o' mine,' growled the cyclops. Puzzlement hadn't turned to rage yet, but I knew his brain was poised on the edge of that plunge.
  'Can't hardly believe me eye!' The cyclops squinted the aforementioned eye. 'Wot you is . . . is an oinky-PIG!' he roared. Then he grinned, displaying the sort of gruesome choppers you might see in a 'before' poster at the office of the world's bravest dentist.
  'An' oinky pigs is better'n stinkin' whey. I LIKES oinky pigs for me brekkie!'
  The dread hand of Fate held me squirming under its ginormous thumb. So this was it - I had managed to get away from the cyclops' cave once before, but that had clearly been a Cosmic mistake of some sort. It had taken a while, but now the Fates were about to rectify this clerical error. My destiny was about to be fulfilled in one bite or two (depending on the cyclops's appetite and table manners - so make that one bite).
  Goodbye, cruel worl-
  'Run, Gryllus!'

The Pig Who Saved the World © Paul Shipton, 2006.  Published by Puffin Books.