When pigs fly

“Who do you think you are?”

That was the question other pigs would ask Peggy. They did not approve of her slacking to fulfill normal pig duties. She kept thinking about something far out there, and they did not like it.

“I know that I was not meant to be a pig!” she said once when she was little, “I’d rather be an owl!”

“The Great Human be with you!” her mentor exclaimed and touched his front right hoof to his belly and upper nipples, which served as the gesture of invoking the Deity, and warding off the evil inappropriate thoughts. “Thank Him you are still a piglet! If you were older, I'd have to turn you in. Amongst the whole animal kingdom, birds are the most condemned ones, especially owls - those demons of the night with devious minds of their own!”

Peggy the piglet bowed her head down. She did not want anyone else to see the excitement in her little eyes. She recalled a majestic bird she saw as a baby, flying out of the barn at the abandoned farm corner, its white feathers glowing in the moonlight. Where did it go? How come pigs aren’t allowed outside The Fence?

Ever since she remembered herself, she sensed something was wrong with who others thought she is, with this clumsy body and the environment she was placed in. Everyone around her was supposedly happy, but she was not, and that nagging creeping suspicion that others just pretended to be happy, or were deep asleep, never left her.

Above all else, she loved sneaking out of the crowded pig house around dusk and going for a walk by herself when no one could see her. Trying to imagine following that barn owl, going the same places the bird would choose. It was the only time she could breathe freely: pigs were not supposed to stroll alone, and had to go most everywhere in groups. Yuck! She hated that herd mentality. On the other hand, it was known to her, that many a pig became accused of connection with Evil Inappropriate Entities because they liked walking by themselves in nature, and sometimes knew more about the healing properties of herbs than a decent pig should. They were sent to the slaughterhouse immediately, and the Judge did not even bother with the hearing.

Peggy still ventured outside every now and then; she had made one of the poles in the fence swing loose by pushing it with her head, and the opening was just wide enough for her. Then she pushed it back in its place, and no one noticed her absence. Most everyone thought she is pretty useless anyway, and she remained invisible.

She would walk through the fields and woods quietly, enjoying the forbidden freedom. Sometimes a bird flew by but none of them as impressive as owls. One night the piglet saw that graceful noiseless motion, the precision of the golden-white wings flipped together just in time to slip between two trees growing only a few hoof lengths apart. It gave her shivers. Peggy knew then with frightening certainty: she has to be an owl. There’s no turning back; some things you can’t unsee.

But do any other pigs know how? Is there a way, no matter how much they might condemn it?

“Can a pig become another animal?” she asked a few of her peers, and was glad she didn't probe any further.

“It's unpatriotic!” one square male pig told her. “You have to be proud of who you are and your cultural heritage. You are not going to defect to abominable birds, are you?”

“Don't you know what they preach at the Pig Barn Temple?” another one reminded her. “Obey the rules, do not ask any questions, and eventually go to the slaughterhouse to sacrifice yourself for The Great Human, as every decent pig should, if you don't want to be continuously slaughtered in the afterlife.”

The threat of eternal damnation was, of course, the terrible one, and Peggy secretly wondered if the Human who set such cruel rules is actually great. For her, a jerk like that sounded worse than a local bully, - a big stinky pig who’d hog all the females. Many male pigs had been marked by his tusks as a reminder who's the boss here. One day he went after Peggy but she kicked him in his private parts and ran away. Just one thought of being a sow just like others made her angry. No courtship, no manners, no love? “She isn’t a prize anyway,” the bully had said and the incident was forgotten. Other males avoided Peggy, other females looked down on her but that was ok. She was glad she stood up for herself.

She clearly did not fit in. The ultimate "sacrifice" duty was depressing enough, but the alternatives did not look any more enticing. Female pigs could evade being killed by having litters of piglets all the time and providing more meat for The Great Human who seemed incredibly voracious. Those who had such supposedly better destiny were boring: they wouldn't talk about anything but their offspring, and they bothered Peggy continuously with that annoying question: When will she join the club? Other similar questions followed: her piglet clock is ticking, what is she going to do about it? Is she being responsible towards The Great Human and the society which have invested so much food into her? Is she just a waste of mud to bathe in if she does not fulfill her duty?

Peggy hated those questions none the less than she did the swinish meals and dirty stables. She needed to get away, and did it whenever possible. But even when having her only company and nothing else, she felt her wretchedness to the fullest. She tried to talk to birds, but they giggled and said: "Hey, you’re a pig! You’re no match amongst us!"

Peggy tried to jump up in the air and fly but f course she couldn’t. She tried to climb a tree but landed on her rear, mortified and hurting. She kept trying but wasn’t getting anywhere. Then she’d get her makeup kit she took out of the trash can secretly, and learned how to use it. Rumors had it that the kit used to belong to one weird indecent pig who was male. Such abominations led to instant executions so the poor fellow was gone. Peggy had to hide this little treasure of hers way out in the woods to not be discovered. She could optically modify her eyes and face quite a bit, -- but not enough to make that fat rounded nose disappear.

“I see the sparkle in my eyes,” she told herself one sunny afternoon after putting a line of charcoal around them. “I know it's there! If only I could get out of the prison of this body! If only makeup could help me turn into an owl!”

Then she would take a few selfies with her camera, and see that the sparkle of inspiration was in her eyes for sure -- but the camera, cruel in its dispassionate attitude, still documented those unattractive features she had inherited from many generations of pigs before her. The camera was found on the country road and had to be hidden too. Peggy used the power plug on the back of some building nearby to recharge it; she was careful to not leave her hoof prints there and tried to choose dry nights. She wasn’t sure what to do in winter when the snow would betray her presence. A plan of escape was needed before her time was up… a miracle to give her the wings she desperately wanted.

Discouraged, she would leave the makeup on, and continue her solitary walks in nature, until it was time to wipe it off thoroughly. It was frowned upon in the decent pig society to wear makeup: only the semi-legal dancers could do it. They served the lusty males for money and somehow avoided having the offspring. They were not even supposed to be talked about. Everyone pretended they don't exist.

One night Peggy heard two owls hooting to each other at that barn nobody used. Disguised by the darkness, she snuck in and tried to imitate the sounds in owl language without even hoping to be talked to. But, to her surprise, the owls responded. They didn't mind her lack of bird language skill, and even her accent. They would probably be disgusted if they saw her by daylight, but as long as she remained incognito, she enjoyed the conversation.

Then she saw one of the owls flying close by and shrank into the bail of hay, ashamed of herself. The bird did not seem to notice her but Peggy was trying to remember every move, every bit of the vibe that gorgeous creature was creating. It radiated calm confidence, the joy of freedom and sovereignty over one's life. The piglet could feel it and her soul ached for it.

A white feather with a touch of gold landed on the ground in front of her. Peggy picked it up and hid it in her purse.

Next minute she was headed towards the restricted farm district where the pole dancer pigs were doing their nasty business. She had a hunch that they know more than most pigs do, and she was right. Sneaking in was easy: Peggy passed for an aspiring dancer since food wasn’t her main interest.

She was blown away by incredibly slender, well-groomed piggy ladies wearing sparkly bikinis and a layer of polish on their hoofs. Yet even these advanced creatures could not fly, and neither were they free from any other pig’s destiny. Once older they were sent to the same scary place where no pig has returned from — or ended up there if they angered a client. Gotta please those male pigs! A short risky life, somewhat sketchy and only a little more luxurious.

Peggy spotted one pole dancer who seemed different. Her performance was touched by a feel of inspiration, not necessity; at times she looked like she was flying around the pole, making a few circles effortlessly. Once the show was over, Peggy followed her to the dressing room and asked if they could talk. The dancer let her in.

“I want to be a bird,” Peggy admitted. “An owl like those inside the old barn. If anyone can tell me what to do it must be you or one of your fellow dancers.”

The older pig, still very pretty, had studied Peggy for about a minute from under her long silver glue-on eyelashes.

Peggy took the feather out of the purse and prepared to face the immediate consequences of her careless confession. The desire to become what she longed to be had outgrown the fear of being punished for it. She will become an owl — or die trying.

“Leave that feather for yourself girl,” the dancer said. “And use it as a bookmark.”

“I don't have any books,” Peggy said. Books have always been the unaffordable luxury. Some modern males still believed women should not even learn how to read and write.

“Now you do. Go right away before anyone has noticed you were here,” the dancer pig said while getting an ancient book from the hiding spot behind the brightly lit mirror. “It's a tough journey. It was too difficult for me but maybe you'll make it.”

“Why was it difficult?”

The dancer sighed, pulling her eyelashes off. She looked tired and sad, her eyes as small as Peggy’s. They were red as if she’s been crying.

“It felt like I was losing my mind,” she said in half-whisper, glancing at the door anxiously. “I was taken towards some strange places… It was more than I could handle.”

“Any place is better than a pig farm!”

“Good luck then.”

“Thank you,” Peggy said with a sincere bow, and put the book into her purse with reverence. Then she tiptoed out, towards the hole in The Fence and into the woods, to add a new forbidden item to her makeup and camera.

She kept coming back there with a flashlight to read a few pages daily if possible, which meant in the dead of night when all decent pigs were sleeping.

“Seems like I’m becoming a night owl!” she exclaimed delightfully while immersing in the book’s content: magical fairy-tales about shape-shifters, elves, and many other wonders. What a breath of fresh air! What a difference from the BOOK she had to study at the Pig Barn Temple, that contained a bunch of guilt-tripping, brain-washing texts about the importance of obedience to The Great Human's orders and not letting your mind wonder off a bit. In fact, a "decent pig" was not supposed to have a mind at all, and if one began thinking too much, the suspicion of it being possessed by Evil Inappropriate Entities arouse instantly. The chapter Peggy found most disgusting was the story of an arrogant, disobedient piglet. That lost soul had eventually found the way home: instead of still wishing he was no longer a pig, he accepted who he "truly" was, and even converted a lot of other doubting and unbelieving pigs to get back to normal. All of them were registered in the Certificate of Honors before they were slaughtered, and were announced to be the special, holy pigs one must call to mind each time one begins to doubt. Peggy hated that story and the whole BOOK.

“This is full of shit!” she muttered as the teacher finished reading. Luckily the old respected boar was deaf. “Did you say you had enough to eat?” he said.

Sometimes the Temple was converted into a movie theater and the piglets were corralled in to be shown "educational" movies. Peggy dosed off through most of them: nothing but boring instructions about farm living, they’d make anyone brain-dead if watched enough. But on a rare occasion, the topics of “inappropriate” and “evil” were highlighted, featuring birds as the worst. The voice behind the camera would say how lost and damned they are without guidance, and a barn to live in legally. Especially those owls who made their nests at the barn attic without a written permission! How dare they! How poor they must be, and envious to the organization and prosperity of the Pig Nation!

“The birds have lost touch with reality”, the voice continued, “Because they no longer walk on earth. They have terrible vertigo and headache from flying. Our competent research team has found out that they have to land and throw up often”. Then the comments followed about how ugly the birds are, since they are too skinny and covered with feathers, how ridiculous their beaks and paws were, and how much they must be jealous of a pig's hooves and snouts.

At this point a lot of pigs in the audience began stomping and snorting in approval.

Finally, the most hated bird was shown in its whole abomination - the owl. Instead of letting themselves be sacrificed, they hunted mice and other rodents. They hid from daylight and stayed up late, which only happened to pigs whose heads were bigger than their stomachs. Overthinking was a sin, a crime, and owls tended to be great thinkers!

The movie-makers created a few scenes of owls' flight, which they filmed right there at the barn. Watching those became the highlight of Peggy's existence. She wondered if the same birds had “talked “ to her. Even after the movie was over, she would see that gorgeous aerial dance in her mind's eye for days, weeks and months.

Thankfully, no one asked why is she so weird (for some reason other pigs could see that she has a "problem", but didn't know what it is) -- they were simply waiting for her to grow big and fat to make enough bacon to compensate for the food invested in her. But even that was not likely to happen, since she was grossed out by most of the food thrown out for them, and remained too thin to be called healthy and attractive. No one knew what to do with her, and it would be a hassle to try to figure.

And so she tried to take advantage of that time which seemed suspended with uncertainty about the future. For most every pig at the farm the future was certain but Peggy was starry-eyed and stubborn enough to doubt her own fate was sealed the same way. Every moment she could steal she came up to her hiding place, made sure she circled around enough to confuse any possible followers, and then took the fairy-tale book out. Stories, one after another, talked about animals shifted into any form they wished; the heroes went on magical quests and performed wonders that not even miracles described in The BOOK would match.

One fall afternoon Peggy was enjoying her secret reading hobby to the max. A rush of inspiration came over as she imagined herself inside of a fairy-tale of her own making. What if the metamorphosis could happen because she had willed it to? What if she could leave the pig farm behind forever, at this very moment?

She sensed someone's presence. The creature felt friendly and it talked to her. That it was not pig language she was certain, but what kind of tongue is it?

“Who are you?” Peggy asked.

“You can call me an elf, or pretty much anything you wish,” the creature said. It was transparent and sparkly, filled with curvy reflections of sunlight which kept shifting, dancing, forming spirals, geometrical shapes and even more complex forms which Peggy heard of as fractals. “You have invoked me, and now I'm here for you.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the piglet said, getting cold hooves. “I didn't want to disturb you. Neither can I invoke Ev… Inappro… Never mind.”

“You didn't disturb me,” the Elf said. “And please don't worry if your folks would call me an “evil inappropriate entity”. You don't seem to believe it. You've been thinking a lot about turning into an owl, and were doing everything you could to get there, even if it was said to be impossible, of unpatriotic. Such consistent thoughts attract me to the thinker, and I am happy to help you make that change happen.”

Peggy put her book aside, astonished. Is it really happening?

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” she said. “I am ready to become an owl right now. But I'm curious how you'll do it. It's more than wearing an outfit made of feathers and playing make-believe, isn't it?”

“Much more,” the Elf answered. “The change will alter your DNA structure, your genetic code. You will no longer have a pig's body, but will become a real owl to the very tips of your claws. The only problem you may encounter is developing an owl's soul. You've been doing a lot of work on it by yourself, and you are no longer a pig… "

"No longer?!" Peggy exclaimed, delighted.

“You have probably never been one to begin with. But you will still need to change some habits and shift into the new mindset completely.”

Startled, Peggy sank on her bottom.

“You are the only one who was able to see it,” she told the Elf, “I think I was misplaced from the very beginning.” I never felt like I belonged at the farm — but I looked up at the owls and knew that this is who I am.” She pulled the barn owl feather out of her purse and showed it to the Elf. “Why does that happen? Do you know?”

“The Universe is playful,” the Elf said. “And much more changeable than respectful pigs want to believe. One thing dissolves and another one is created…”

“I don’t have to die, do I?” - Peggy interrupted anxiously. “I don’t believe in Pig’s Heaven, even though that’s taught at the Barn Temple.” She cringed on remembering The BOOK sessions. “You see, I’m not sure I will still be me after I die, and that I will still want the same thing. Or that there will be any “me” at all. I have to find a way in this life!’

The Elf remained patient as he listened.

“You will not die,” he said. “Playful doesn't mean cruel or insensitive. Quantum physicists have proven that what is called God loves playing - be it dice, cards, or anything. Because everything is a game doing magic is much easier than one thinks. Someone said it’s not about getting good cards but playing the bad ones well. You were handed the card you did not like, Peggy - and you refused to accept it. You dared to doubt and ask for more than a "decent" pig should. Good for you!”

The piglet looked at her hooves to make sure what’s going on is real. She moved them in front of her face; the Elf didn’t go anywhere.

“From now on,” he continued, “Stop thinking and talking about yourself as a pig. Learn owl language and get used to the food owls eat. Become good at hunting it, making your nest, and above all, flying. You want no other owl to have a slightest suspicion about you. Trust me, not all of them were meant to be what they appear, either! Neither will all of them be nice to you, a newcomer. You will have to be more of an owl than most of them. And never — I mean, ever — mention where you came from, especially as an excuse for not doing something well enough. That will make your new life very different from what you wanted it to be.

“I guess I will have to remain secretive for the rest of my life”, Peggy sighed. “Just like I have been at the farm.”

“It's not a bad choice. The less others know about you, the less vulnerable you are. Luckily, most everyone is so much into themselves that they won't ask you questions. I used to know a few pigs who defected into the owl world, but did not maintain secrecy, and were called "pigs" by the owl society. They didn’t learn the manners, and their owl language bore a heavy accent. They were a social liability for any respectable owl to hang out with. I guess they never truly belonged. They refused to make an effort to complete their transformation. I am an alchemist, and I can re-shape your body into anything — but your character is up to you.”

Peggy bowed before the wise Elf and thanked him. “May I ask you one question?” she said.

The Elf didn't mind.

“What do you look like? I see a beautiful dance of light waves and particles, but no shape I could name anything.”

“I don't have any,” the Elf answered, “But I can take any shape I like temporarily, and then dissolve it to turn into something new. It's really not a big deal.”

“But how come everyone believes this is impossible? No one at the farm was allowed to think about it.”

“Dear Peggy, I think you can answer that question yourself, but later, after the most important business is taken care of. What happens with pigs is no longer a concern of yours,” he reminded, “Unless you still have attachments there.”

“I have none,” she said.

“Then let's start with the name change. We have to give you an owl name, and your body shift will follow. I will remain close by as long as you may need me, while you are getting used to your new life. Do not seek the company of other owls yet until I tell you that you're ready — you don't want to be mislabeled, do you?”

“Oh no.”

“Another warning is about something your friend, the dancer, could not cope with. It's more difficult than learning the most complicated flying tricks.”

“What is it, Wise Elf?”

“The sense of guilt. That is your number one enemy - not bigger predators, not harsh weather, not the snobbery some owls might display, not even the pig society. It's your own mind playing tricks on you, calling you a traitor, a wannabe, a silly dreamer, a loser. You may want to return to the comfort of the herd mentality that you used to hate so much. But now you’re on your own, and no one will make decisions for you. No one will feed you or give you shelter. You have to be self-reliant and exercise the sovereignty you did not know existed. You'll have to keep polishing your manners and be graceful much beyond what you had seen. You've got to watch out for the bias and injustice in the barn owl society — surprisingly, you'll find out that no species is perfect, even the owls. Once you have learned as much as you did, you will no longer be able to confide in anyone, with a few rare exceptions: you know too much about the nature of the living beings to have any illusions, or trust anyone more than yourself. That is the price to pay for becoming what you want to be. It's lonely at the top… yet that’s your soul’s home.”

The Elf paused.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’d like to be called Silent Dancer then,” she said. “In memory of the one who gave me this book. She knew I could have been a snitch but risked her life to help me. I still don't know why.”

“She saw herself in you,” the Elf answered. “She could have turned you in but then her soul would die and she knew it.”

Then everything became blurry and the piglet-to-become-owl fell into a trance. Time passed but all she could feel was weightlessness; her body tingled but it didn’t bother her. Once she came to her senses those weren’t the same anymore. They were heightened and fine-tuned as if the dull picture of her previous life became remastered in a colorful time loop.

The sun was setting behind distant hills covered with dense pine forest. The dimmer its light became, the brighter the Elf was shining as his presence enveloped the young seeker in the moment of transformation. Her ears were opening up to the music unknown before, which seemed familiar. The sounds of the coming night were calling for a journey like nothing she had ever experienced.

Suddenly she pushed off the ground and found herself gliding through the air, soft and refreshing; all clumsy efforts of tree-climbing were history. She landed on the branch of a ponderosa pine and folded her new wings gracefully, enchanted with their beauty. Same colors as the feather left between the pages of the book that saved her soul — for real. Her hind and now the only legs had grown long toes, each one ending as a sharp curved claw.

Why am I not getting sick from flying? she thought, letting out a giggle; it sounded like hooting. And where is the Elf? She wanted to give him a thousand thanks and the biggest hug those wings would allow.

She found her purse hanging on the tree and took out the pocket mirror. Her altered face greeted her, instantly recognized and loved as something she had always longed to see. The piglet nozzle she used to be ashamed of has turned into an elegant beak. The small pathetic eyes of nondescript color became large and deep like dark wells. The expression at the bottom of them, however, was the same — the only thing she was happy to take with from the old body. Her spirit lived on, and the appearance finally matched it.

She stepped off the branch, and was caught by the streams of gentle air, as if bouncing off invisible trampoline.

The fledgling owl made a few summersaults and cartwheels in the air; they still felt awkward but made her happy. She switched to a calmer cool down mode, and ended up landing on the roof of the old barn at the farm. Turned her head all 360 degrees around effortlessly, and looked at the past for the very last time. There she spotted a young piglet standing outside all by himself, stargazing. After a moment’s hesitation she took off and approached him noiselessly, making a circle around him as he watched her flight, awestruck. She brushed her wing against his snout gently and was gone, forever.

The Elf was watching her; if anyone could see him they would swear he was hiding a smile in the swirls of sparkly mustache, under the brims of that pointed hat of his.

Silent Dancer had no regrets. She followed the Elf's advice to the letter, and became the true Barn Owl to the last bit. Other owls developed great respect towards her, and even came to ask for her advice in difficult matters. She learned how to dance in the air, how to hunt and build her own nest at the remote barn far, far away where she lived like a hermit. Her skills were much talked about, as well as the veil of mystique that surrounded her.

“This is the one of our kind!” the other birds would tell one another. “You can tell there's the Great Owl's blood in her veins.”

Silent Dancer felt proud and somewhat sad when she overheard that. She kept her secret written as a fiction story —locked up in a trunk hidden in her tidy cozy nest with other treasures, only to be found after she had died in her sleep peacefully. No worries about being mislabeled — she had lived her only, precious life the way she wanted to, and that's what matters.

01.23.15.